


The Bad Guys

by raucouscanklescackleinthetwilight_hun



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: As in using elements of canon that suit me, Background Slytherins - Freeform, Background to HP, Canon Compliant, Character study of Draco Malfoy, Death of minor character, Demon deal, Dysfunctionally functioning families, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Magical epilepsy, Mental Health Issues, Slow Burn, a lot of OCs - Freeform, angsty, magical religion, sounds angstier than it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2019-09-24 15:11:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17102945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raucouscanklescackleinthetwilight_hun/pseuds/raucouscanklescackleinthetwilight_hun
Summary: UNDER CONSTRUCTION.Most pureblood families carry their fair share of shady histories and funny businesses. Portrayed always as the bad guys, are Slytherins really that black and white? Could they be more complex than a one-dimensional dialogue? Main POV of Draco Malfoy, our reliable and definitely-not-biased narrator, and his views on the effects of societal change of wizardkind on the individual (himself) over the period of 1993 to 1998 (but mostly it's just him bitching about the Notts, and definitely not a long-winded story about how he developed a crush on a very unlikely candidate).





	1. A Rather Bleak Birthday Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note tags! This story may contain elements that can upset people, as it discusses a magical version of certain diseases in great detail (sometimes graphic), as well as brief mention of a characters' grief and grieving processes (sometimes unhealthy). 
> 
> This is not a fluffy story, but will lead to happy ending (I think, lol. No, it will. Probably.).

Draco didn’t look forward to stupid Nott’s stupid birthday party.

He was thirteen now, home from Hogwarts for Christmas, and surely, outgrowing the likes of prepuberscent birthday bashes.

Not to mention he wasn’t fond of Nott at all.

But alas, he could only voice his displeasure meekly, as his mother pushed him down front of her dressing table in a no-nonsense manner, her elegant fingers curled around thecomb dipped into Sleakeazy’s, its tacky, cold residue making Draco shiver. He peered in the tin, stomach turning on the sight of the thick potion, swirling ominously on his mother’s command. She slapped another dollop on the back of Draco’s neck, the cloy, overpowering sweet smell filling her windows-less boudoir, making Draco gag. 

‘No need to be so puerile, darling.’ She scolded him, and Draco watched his sullen reflection jut his pointy chin out further. He murmured something in retort under his breath, but fell silent as his mother’s eyes flashed dangerously. 

‘What was that?’ Her voice rang shrill with frustration, hitting an unpromising decibel used so rarely on Draco. 

‘Nothing, Mother. Sorry, Mother.’ He retreated hastily.

Better not court death, after all. 

The comb dug into his locks again, its teeth painfully half-catching on the shell of his ear. 

‘Ow!’ His hand defensively swung up, covering his throbbing wound, his eyes watering. ‘Is it _bleeding_?!’ 

‘Don’t be ridiculous! It’s just a scratch.’ Mother had that face on again, nose wrinkled and upturned in the air, the edges of her mouth curling down. The comb fell on the shiny surface of the dressing table with a loud  _clank._ ‘You are perfectly fine. We are going to be late. Just put your cloak on, Draco.’ Her tone cut like a well aimed _Difindo_ , but its sharpness was softened by her shaking hands, one twisting into the other, worrying.

Father always said that women were much like flowers; in need of water, nourishment, but most of all, male attention. Without it, women were simply to wither, a lengthly and bitter battle against time. He tactfully also added that it was a foolish venture to inquire whether it was attentiveness they required, and Draco could see the justification to that now, as his mother frantically fussed over the crinkly paper of stupid Nott’s stupid birthday present.

He turned his gaze back to the mirror, examining the already fading red scratches just behind his right ear. Embarassingly, the comb didn’t even break skin. 

‘Draco, please. We mustn’t give Lucretia Nott a chance to give us any more grief than necessary.’ 

Ah, so it wasn’t troubles of womanhood that captured his mother’s sanity.

It was just Lucretia bloody Nott.

Mrs Nott, born a Yaxley, was an increasingly unpleasant woman, much like the rest of her gaudy family. Unlike Draco's mother, Mrs Nott had no grace about her; she was more thorn than petal, to say the least. Short tempered, violent, and a bit too fond of fire whiskey, if rumours were to be believed. In theory, their marriage with Mr Nott should have mellowed her out - Mr Nott was an elderly potioneer, all too clever with little interest in reigning in young Lucretia Yaxley, or even to advance himself in his work at the Improper Use of Magic Office. His talents were wasted, both on his Minsitry job and in controlling his distasteful wife. Instead of calming her, everything Mr Nott did further enraged Mrs Nott into a vicious and vocal (and often public!) attack, lashing out not only on Mr Nott, but their sons too. It was no coincidence that both Theo and his brother were weedy-looking, rabbity boys. It would have been hard to flourish under the constant humiliation that Mrs Nott’s mothering provided. Draco knew that, because Father had told him that too.

Draco’s father was terribly knowledgeable.

His mother, on the other hand, was terribly irritable, Draco remarked to himself, as he allowed her to shoo him across the Floo into the front hall of the Nott’s London townhouse. 

If one thing he may have admitted to being envious of of the Nott’s, it was that they were located in London. Draco stepped out of the fireplace and rushed to the windows, carelessly dragging soot onto the Persian rug. How exciting, to be able to freely observe all these muggles shuffling up and down the snow dusted streets, the red double-decker buses zooming past, splattering icy sludge on unsuspecting cyclists and pedestrians alike. The brick houses were all uniformly decorated, sparkling Christmas lights and fancy wreaths, their striking colours tuned down by the yellow lights of the street lamps. 

Christmas was, truly, magical. 

‘This way, darling.’ Mother made a frustrated hand motion, gesturing towards the solid oak door, shoving Nott’s present into his hands as she knocked. 

Draco had barely time to contemplate how much he hated social gatherings, or people in general, when a wizened old elf opened the door. 

‘Narcissa Malfoy, Draco Malfoy!’ The elf announced to no one in particular, as she stood in the middle of the empty corridor. ‘Welcoming you to the auld and righteous  house of Nott. The soirée is taking place in the parlour - if the lady and gentleman will be following Jinsky?’ Her pruned, long index finger jutted towards another door at the end of the corridor, walking towards her destination with a tempo unjustified by her age, her stained tea towel cape flopping behind her. 

Draco looked up at his mother, unsure how to proceed. She shrugged, and followed the elf at a much slower, more dignified pace. 

Draco didn’t follow.

Instead, he bit down on his bottom lip, looking down at the packaging of stupid Nott’s stupid birthday present for the umpteenth time, his sweaty palms leaving darker imprints on the silver paper. Draco hated unknown territories - the Nott’s parlour being one of them - and also, he still wasn’t very fond of people, even if they were fellow Slytherins. Father always said they were all above these wannabe riff-raffs; surely this meant he wouldn’t be upset if Draco sneaked back home...

He wistfully glanced back into the front hall, where above the roomy brick fireplace, hang a 19th century map of Belfast, dots blurring up and down its narrow inky streets. In that moment, he would have rather wished to be in Belfast itself than to stand stock-still in this dreary corridor, watching an elf older than Mr Nott himself scratch its scrawny elf-arse. 

‘Darling?’ Mother and the elf both stared at him, icy pale blue and slimy light green eyes near fluorescent in the fading light. ‘Come now, Draco.’

And as he had no other choice, he did.

oOo

Safely hidden between Greg and Vince, being present seemed a bit more bareable in the stuffy room. Mother across from them had been deep in conversation with Mr Nott, who cheerfully topped up her giggle water. Mother smiled her public smile - restrained, small, insincere. The one that never reached her eyes. 

She tilted her head as she spoke, her eyes catching Draco watching her. They shone threateningly - only minutes before, she walked over and told Draco to shut up about his near miss with the muggle helicopter. “Who are you trying to impress?” and “Quit being so loud! Unbecoming.” had been both hissed in his direction as she pretended to adjust his lapel.

Merlin and Morgana’s batty pantaloons, why was she so _difficult_  tonight?! Normally, she _loved_ his stories!

Draco sullenly stabbed his dessert with his fork, further mashing it into an unidentifiable substance.

Theo and his mother were making their rounds as well - stopping every once in a while, forcing painstaking small talk and thank yous out. Mrs Nott wobbled only slightly, and in Draco’s books, that was rather impressive. According to Pansy’s tally, she was on her 9th glass of elf-wine. Draco would have cringed internally in sympathy - but then again, he wasn’t fond of Nott himself either.

He coughed and pretended to examine the intricate tapestry on the wall in order to hide his glee from his mother’s knowing eyes. 

‘What do you think, is this a cherished family troll, or Nott’s great-great grandmother?’ He snickered at Goyle, who, coincidentally, was also on his 9th slice of cake. 

Pistachio and raspberry. How tragically plebeian.

‘Huh?’ Greg’s little pig eyes focused on the mushy-carnage on Draco’s plate. ‘Are you going to finish that?’ 

He sighed, shaking his head, turning towards Vince with the intention of repeating himself louder, only to find him dig deeper up into his own nostril.

‘Eugh,’ he hastily pushed his plate on, ‘on a second thought, you can have it.’

Greg’s face lit up like a muggle Christmas tree Draco just saw outside.

‘That’s our uncle’s godmother, Aunt Walburga.’ Nasal voice, with heavy mouthbreathing, supplied. ‘Kind of disrespectful, since she was more related to you than to us, Draco.’

‘Hello, Snotty.’ Draco didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Theo’s brother was only a year above him in Hogwarts, his famous buck teeth so far apart a sickle could fit into the gap. It made him not only sound like a complete and very recognisable tosser, but also made him snore like a hippogriff. Draco had the pleasure to listen to it through the thin dormitory walls for years now. It had helped Maurice become the least popular pupil in Slytherin pretty fast.

Not that his charming personality didn’t do enough in that department.

Annoyingly, Ricey didn’t get upset from name-calling. He laughed, and lifted a goblet of pumpkin juice off the nearest tray. ‘Ah, it never gets old. Are you having a pleasant evening, lads?’ His irritating Northern Irish lilt was only made sharper by his pinched tone.

He got some unenthusiastic grunts from Goyle and Crabbe.

‘Would be more pleasant without you.’ Even Draco’s sneer only earned him a shrug and a chuckle from Maurice. ‘Why in the name of all magicks are you so chipper?’ 

‘Today is a joyful celebration!’ Maurice smirked into his goblet, and then used the back of his hand to wipe the juice spilt over his chin. In the background, the lamps ominously darkened. 

‘Weird.’ Vince muttered, and began to wipe something on the cushion beside him that Draco did not wish to examine closer. 

‘Anyway,’ Maurice looked at his approaching mother and brother. ‘Better move along. Farewell!’ And without waiting on their reply, turned on his heels, and left.

‘Vince, Greg,’ Theo carefully angled his mother on the nearest armchair, ‘Draco. You remember them all, don’t you, Mother?’ 

‘Merlin, Theo, of course. I didn’t forget your little friends of the past 13 years. Don’t be such a pest.’ Mrs Nott nodded, her eyes glazed over with something malicious and inebriated. ‘Hic.’ 

She swatted Theo’s hands away, stumbling back into the chair. Impressively, she didn’t spill a drop of her drink.

‘Is she well?’ Draco wrinkled his nose, half-disgusted, half-affronted. 

‘Oh, yes. Don’t worry about her.’ Nott leaned in conspiratorially. ‘This is the most pleasant she can be.’ 

‘Hic.’ She took another swig, and rolled her eyes.

‘Ehm.’ Draco brushed his fingers against his left eyebrow. ‘Well.. Happy birthday?’ 

‘Thanks.’ Theo stepped closer again, away from his mother. ‘Enjoying the party?’ 

‘Oh.. yes.. great gathering.’ 

Scritch-scratch. Draco looked at his mother again, who wildly mimed at him to stop picking on his eyebrow. He dug his hands into his pockets, and stared out the window.

‘Who is that?’ 

Vince pointed at a lonely figure outside, playing with a strange stick - flatter and longer than an average quidditch bat, she was bouncing a fiery ball at the stick’s curved end. 

‘And what is she wearing?’ Pansy appeared out of nowhere, her pug nose neatly pressed against the windowpane. 

Draco turned back, and the girl stepped out from behind the tacky, giant fountain covered in stone-snakes: she wore a leopard print padded jacket, black trousers with white stripes on the sides (are those pyjama bottoms?), and red sheepskin boots.

Most disturbingly though, she wore a strange white hairnet, that pulsated into a turquoise colour every few seconds.

‘Oh, that’s just cousin Rosamund.’ Theo shrugged, inspecting his nails with great inquisitivity. 

‘Is that Mental Mundy?!’ Pansy shrieked, only tearing her eyes away to flash everyone her horror struck face. ‘Is it safe for her to be here?’ 

‘Pans, no one calls her that anymore,’ Theo followed her gaze out the window, ‘And to answer your question: of course it is safe! As long as she stays outside.. I think.’ He wrinkled his nose with displeasure. Mental Mundy outside dropped the ball. She rolled it back towards herself using her stick, flicking it upwards on the side of her ankle and shin. She didn’t seem to mind the scorch marks it left behind, instead, she held her stick out triumphantly, and the ball continued to bounce up and down, up and down.

In her concentration she frowned, her features strangely identical with Theo's. Other than that, they didn't look much alike - Theo had mousy brown hair, presumably inherited from his father, but hard to judge, as Mr Nott was bald as an egg. Mrs Nott had tight blonde curls surround her sharp features, so they definitely did not derive from her.

Mental Mundy had dark brown hair, braided haphazardly under her hairnet. She had well-defined cheekbones, bushy eyebrows, and deep circles under her eyes, adding together a spectacularly mean face that Draco would not have felt comfortable mocking in her earshot. He never met her parents, so he had no idea where she got her features from, but she didn't look like one of the typical Snott-dorks.

'I have never seen her before, does she go to Hogwarts? Also, I didn't know you had a female cousin.' He turned to Theo, who paled a little bit more at that. 'I thought your father was an only child? Corban Yaxley only has sons, as far as I know.' Mental Mundy distinctively didn't have any of the Yaxley features - they were a characteristically large nosed, tight lipped tossers. Not that he would have pointed this out front of any of them, either.

'No.. she’s.. well... Oh look! There's Millicent! I haven't seen her in ages! Farewell.' 

‘We just left for holidays two days ago?' Greg scratched his chin with his fork.

'Oh, don't mind him.' Pansy dramatically stretched over the back of Draco's chair. 'He's just terribly ashamed of his heinous family.'

'Normally I wouldn't indulge you..' Draco turned around, her pug nose nearly brushing his pointy one. 'But do go on.'

'You know how Notts never have daughters because..' She lowered her voice into a whisper that was louder than her normal voice. ' _THE CURSE_.'

'What curse?’ 

‘Oh, you know, all girl Notts are Squibs. Something to do with an ancient Nott pissing off an ancient mudblood in the 17th century.’ She was so close to Draco he really had to strain his neck to keep some distance between them. ‘So they get rid of them.’ 

‘They get rid of..?’ 

‘Girl babies. The abortion spell was invented by Conchobar Nott in 1647.’ 

Draco’s "No way!" was overpowered by Vince and Gregg’s "Wicked!!".

‘Khm.. yeah.. anyway.. so it was all fun and games until Mr Nott’s sister survived the abortion spell. 19 times.’ 

‘Nineteen?!’

Pansy shrugged.

‘Cantankerus Nott was not a wizard who was afraid of doing the right thing.’ She sniffed condescendingly. ‘A Squib child always brings an unfathomable shame to the family. Some say that daughter was the reason he died so young.’ 

‘I thought he died at the age of 79?’ 

‘Yeah, but an average Nott can go on till 130. Tragic, really. He had so many revolutionary ideas still in him.’ Pansy’s face took on a dreamy look, and Draco couldn’t help but agree with her. 

The loss of Cantankerus Nott had been a large blow to Wizarding kind, to say the least.

‘Anyway, so this daughter’s kid is Mental Mundy?’ Draco looked outside again, where Maurice joined in with his own stick, the fiery ball shooting back and forth between the two of them. ‘She looks to have some magic?’ 

‘Yep.’ Pansy gleamed with malice, enjoying the fact that she was gradually gathering a good few guests’ attention in the room. ‘My mum is quite good friends with her.’ She nodded towards Mrs Nott, who was gently snoring in her armchair. ‘So I know all the dirty details..’

Just then, she went uncharacteristically quiet, and white as chalk too. Draco turned to see Mrs Parkinson emerge from the next room, her mouth pressed into a line so tight it would’ve made Professor McGonagall run for her galleons. 

But before she could reprimand Pansy for her behaviour, the windowpane rattled behind them.

Everyone rushed to look outside.

The fiery ball ("Hey! That’s my sliothar!!" Theo exclaimed in the background) fell into the repulsive fountain, its fire extinguished. Mental Mundy shrugged off her coat immediately, and plunged her two arms elbow deep into the murky water. 

Maurice beside her stared up at the sky, black clouds inauspiciously swirling above them. He looked uncomfortable, and held Mundy’s coat tightly to his chest.

He said something to her that could only have been “leave the bloody thing and let’s get inside” (you didn’t need to be a Legilimens to read the situation), when Mundy’s face broke into a wide smile (Merlin, who would have thought that it would make her look _meaner_?), and she held her thin, white arm high with a black ball clutched between her fingers.

Maurice was already halfway back to the house.

She turned to shout something after him (“wait up!” Possibly? Hard to hear through the wind and glass), and the ball sparkled back to life.

And then the flames fizzled out quickly.

Oh, but wait! It is sputtering some flames!

But only for a second. 

‘Daaad! They wrecked my sliothar!! I only just got it!’ Theo’s whinging grew louder. 

‘Shut up Snotts! She has the _SACRED DISEASE! GET OUT, NOW!!’_ Pansytumbled under the long dining table, the silk of the tablecloth swinging behind her.

A murmur rippled through the crowds, and every guest in the room turned back to the window.

Mundy still held the rapidly flashing ball, her hairnet turning scarlet. Maurice backed into the back door, violently yanking on a jammed doorknob.

The thunder crashed.

The next moment, everything exploded outside, and simultaneously, all the lights went out inside.

Water and stone-shards rained on the window, making the room duck and fall on their hands and knees. A few adults muttered _Lumos,_ frightened faces lighted up in the flickering corners of the room.

Vince was the first one to jump up and scramble back to the window.

Draco grabbed him by his sleeve, and hissed at him ‘Are you bloody bonkers??’, but he shoved Draco away and pressed his cheeks against the cool glass. 

‘The snakes are alive!’ He roared, and the room erupted in chaos.

Draco stood up and dusted himself off, only the ground shook under him with a second explosion, and he ended up on the floor again. Vince held onto the windowsill, his voice excited as he commentated ‘Ricey is so _fucked_! Draco, come, look!!’

Draco staggered up and looked.

The outside was a battlefield. Mundy was seizing on the ground, her arms covered in cuts and grazes, Maurice kneeling beside her, shaking her shoulders. 

‘Do something!!’ Mrs Parkinson hissed at Mr Nott, who looked even clamier than usual. Mrs Nott was bawling her eyes out in the background, Mother soothingly patting her hand.

Mr Nott flicked his wand, and railings rolled over the windows, the house shifting, locks turning and clicking. 

‘You are locking Ricey out!!’ Mrs Nott screeched, and Theo jumped up for action, but could not get the door to open either. 

‘It’s not safe, son.’ Mr Nott dabbed a handkerchief against his forehead. ‘She's going to go off again, you know what's she’s like.’ 

The world tilted again, crystal glasses shattering against the marble floor.

Outside, a scream so high pitched began wailing, Draco thought Mental Mundy managed to also summon a banshee.

Surprisingly, the source of the noise was Maurice - stone snakes circled around him, hissing and biting. He stuck his wand straight out, his hand violently trembling. 

Mundy continued to jerk about, her hairnet flashing in every shade of red. It matched her hands and now chin too, as she evidently managed to bite through her own lip, the corners of her mouth emitting pink froth.

'Merlin and Morgana help us all.' Vince said as one of the bigger snakes lunged themselves towards Maurice's neck.

In his panic, Maurice flung his wand at one of the snakes, bouncing off and rolling away across the yard. Mundy stopped all movement too, and the snakes fell to the ground dead. Colour was draining rapidly from Maurice's face, blood running down between his fingers, staining the snow in front of him. He fell to his knees, free arm stretched out towards Mundy.

'LET ME OUT!!' Theo was losing his mind, rattling the door with all his power. 

'Wait.' Mr Nott seemed to be the only calm person in the room. 'It's not over yet.' 

Mrs Nott was sandwiched between Draco's mother and Mrs Parkinson, sobbing inconsolably as the two women alternatingly wiped her running mascara away with their lace handkerchieves. 

Mr Nott swiftly walked over to the window, pushing both Draco and Vince aside. He rested his large hands against the window frames, leaning in, eyes squinting. 'Come on..' he murmured, his eyes darkening further.

The silence was only broken by Mrs Nott's weeping.

Outside, the commotion seemed to halt enough that various muggle neighbours deemed it safe to poke their noses over the fence. A large van arrived with the most astonishingly loud siren.

The snakes began to twitch again.

They began to lazily twist and turn - as if they only begun to thaw now, their movements rigid and placid still. Maurice outside kept choking, and the muggles took a step back, unsure whether it was safe to advance.

Mundy slowly came around too, and she turned on her stomach. The colour of the hairnet was difficult to make out, as the muggle van's lights distorted the scene with flashing lights of red and blue.

She coughed, spat, and coughed again. By any measure, she didn't look like she knew where she was. Every time she tried to get up, she collapsed back into her elbows, her hands scrambling for solid ground she could not hold onto, her knees splaying to the sides. 

The snakes seemed to feed on her lack of energy, beginning to move around more vigorously. To make things worse, the puddle around Maurice grew larger by the second too.

Draco's fingers grasped on smooth skin, and he realised then that in his panic, he'd pulled half his right eyebrow out. He dropped his hand on the windowsill, tufts of short blond hair stuck to his fingers. He looked to the side at Vince, who didn't seem affected at all - if anything, he looked like he was more in his element than ever.

Outside, Mundy began to crawl towards Maurice.

She made slow work of it, sharp rabble and stone snakes impeding her journey. One snake twined around her calf, another around her arm, and a third around her waist. A fourth was making its way towards her neck too. 

She grasped for Maurice's wand.

For a split second Draco was sure she was aiming for the fourth snake - winding its stone body tightly around her neck, her face purpling, but the wand missfired. A flash of red, and the curse hit her temple instead.

All magical movement stopped on the grounds, and Mr Nott murmured "good girl" as he unlocked the doors, the floo chiming with a small army of Aurors rushing through the halls.

That's when it dawned on Draco; Mental Mundy didn't miss at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Any feedback much appreciated!


	2. A Mismatch Made in Heaven

‘She is the devil herself! You can't be serious about this.'  

'I was not asking for your opinion.' Mrs Nott lifted a steaming teacup to her lips, her eyes narrowing, her nostrils flaring. 'I am merely informing you; the decision is already made.'

'How kind of you.' Theo slammed his book down on the desk, the sound making Mrs Nott wince.

'Budge over,' Greg hissed into Draco's ear, ‘You are hogging the keyhole!’ 

‘Piss off.’ Draco shoved his elbow into Greg’s ribs. He muffled a yelp into his meaty fist, throwing a dark look back at him, but didn’t retaliate otherwise. Draco smirked into his keyhole.

‘I don’t see what’s the big deal.’ Maurice stepped away from the window, allowing the house elf to pour him a cup too. ‘She needs proper help. Hogwarts could give her that?’ 

‘She needs St Mungo’s, that's what she does!’ Theo exclaimed, his ears turning beetroot red. ‘Can’t you remember the carnage she left behind last Christmas? I would’ve thought you of all people..’

He trailed off, vaguely gesturing towards the scars on Maurice’s neck. 

‘Ah.’ He lifted his fingers to it, scratching the puckered skin, a smug smile slowly spreading on his face. ‘You are just jealous, ‘cause it makes me popular with the ladies..’ 

‘What bird could possibly be into that?! Anyway, have you seen your face? Get off your high thestral, Ricey.’ Theo grimaced, and Draco snickered. He glanced to his side, Greg grinning back.

‘Enough, boys.’ Mrs Nott placed her teacup on its saucer with a sharp _clink_. ‘Bridie can’t handle her anymore. She must go, and you will do your best to help her adjust, do I make myself clear?’ 

‘It’s so unfair, Mother! No offence, Maurice, but being your wee brother cramps my style enough, never mind bringing Mental Mundy into the picture.’ 

Maurice slurped loudly, and picked up a tray of sandwiches, which he pointedly only offered to their mother.

'Thank you, dear.' Mrs Nott took one, rewarding Ricey with a rare smile. When she turned away, Maurice did a wanking motion in the air behind her back, and Theo scratched his nose by using -curiously- his middle finger only.  

‘Theo, stop whining like a little girl. And don’t call her that. It’s not Rosamund’s fault she’s.. impaired.’ Mrs Nott rubbed her temple. ‘I have a blinding headache. Could you not just let it be?’ 

Theo fell silent, his gaze following Ricey as he walked away. 

He dropped his voice to a lower volume. ‘Mother, she did nearly kill Ricey.. is this safe at all?’ 

‘There’s been an obliviator team out in her muggle school nearly every week. Her squib mother has no way of containing her. The situation.. it’s just not sustainable, not anymore.’ Mrs Nott paused for a second, lost in thought. ‘She should’ve gone to Hogwarts years ago; maybe we wouldn’t be here now, if she did..’ 

‘Why didn’t she then? This is going to be an absolute nightmare, Mother, a social suicide!’ 

‘You know her.. unfortunate background. But, I suppose, some secrets cannot be kept under the cauldron's lid.’ Her eyes glassed over, staring off into the distance. ‘No matter how much we wish to.’ 

‘Send her to Durmstang, then. Mum, this is going to be the talk of the whole school, I will never live it down!’ Theo’s arms limply fell beside him, his head hanging low - he looked devastated.

‘Theo,’ Mrs Nott dusted off her robes, and rose to stand. ‘Not everything is about you. If you stop for a second in your pity party, you might consider how difficult this transition will be for Rosamund.’ 

‘I don’t give a shit about Rosamund.’ 

Mrs Nott placed a hand on his arm, her other hand lifting his chin. 

‘Maybe you should.’ Mrs Nott’s features softened, her face marked by premature lines smooth over into something more youthful, almost pleasing. ‘She never meant to hurt anyone, my love. I can assure you of that.’

Theo jerked his head away. 

‘I hate her. I hate her so much!’ He pushed away from the table, swiftly marching towards the door Draco currently occupied with his accomplice. Him and Greg scrambled to their feet, scurrying along the corridor. They could still hear Theo’s raised voice from their next hiding spot (behind a rather unrealistic bronze statue of a smiling Bernard, the Jolly Goblin).

‘I hate her nearly as much as I hate you!’ Theo shouted just before he slammed the door, stalking off into the next room, another door slam closely following next.

Greg looked at Draco with an uncomfortable tension on his face. 

‘So,’ he said finally, ‘do you think Ireland has a chance against Bulgaria next week?’

oOo

For the rest of the summer, Draco was careful to keep his distance from Theo and his lousy family members. 

If Lucretia Nott was happy to put her sons through such a social faux pas as to send their nutty cousin along with them to Hogwarts, well, that was her own decision, but Draco wanted no part of it. He'd been clear with Goyle and Crabbe as well what he expected of them.

'Don't even say hello.' He instructed Greg, just before he pushed his trolley through to Platform 9 3/4, determined to avoid the Snotts at all cost.

Of course, Mother had other ideas.

'Lucy!' She waved enthusiastically, hurrying towards Mrs Nott, grabbing her hand and squeezing it tightly. 

It was a nauseating public display of affection, so embarrassing, Draco could feel his ears burning. He risked a glance up to his father's face, who did not look back at him. Instead, he smoothly greeted the Notts in that way he did everyone - cold and distant, yet strangely conspiratory, shaking hands, and making inane small talk. 

Draco pretended to find the platform's ceiling fascinating. Greg beside him began a minute-by-minute break down of the Quidditch world cup with Theo. Vince congratulated Maurice on Ireland's win as if he himself was part of the national team. Both Snotts were still wearing their Irish rosettas, proudly puffing out their chests.

Draco nearly dislocated his eyeballs by the force of his eye roll.

Couple of feet from them stood Theo's cousin and aunt, looking disappointingly ordinary. The Squib Snott was a stout middle-aged woman, the tip of her head only reaching her lanky daughter's shoulders. She had short mousy-brown hair, and a dopey face that even if Draco felt like being kind (which he certainly didn't), he wouldn't have described as aesthetically pleasing. To top it off, she wore an awful flowery shirt, bright yellow raincoat, and had a grumpy sausage dog tucked under her arm. 

'Be good, Betsy-girl,' Mental Mundy looked entirely normal too, as she patted the dog's ugly head, water droplets still sitting in the waves of her hair from the rain outside. She had a scrape on her chin, and was a little too pale, her black trousers just a smidgen too short, her white shirt, although neatly ironed, just a size too big. 'Look after Mammy for me, will ye?'

'And you look after yourself, pet.' Squib Snott enveloped Mundy into a one-armed awkward hug, pressing a sloppy kiss on her cheek, leaving a pink stain of lipstick behind. She gently rubbed it away after, her hand lingering on her daughter's cheek, the two of them exchanging a look of nauseating adoration.

Draco's mother used to be very affectionate, in the privacy of the Manor's many walls. She liked stroking Draco's hair, kissing his cheeks, his forehead, patting his hands, drawing him into an embrace as they read together in the Manor's sunroom. But lately, as time passed and he grew older, her touches became far and few in-between, her tone sharper and less understanding. 

Jealousy flared in Draco's chest, looking at this diseased, lame girl being embraced by her unwanted, lame mother.

'You go on, Mam.' She patted her shoulder, picking her battered trunk up. On the side, the gold lettering spelled out R. J. N. - but you could tell someone clumsily scratched the original T into an R. 'Don't need to wave me off.'

Squib Snott smiled, 'But you won't mind if I do?' She asked teasingly, her dog giving a weak yelp as she held her tighter.  

'I just don't want you to miss your portkey.' Her hand lingered on her mother's shoulder, long, slim fingers digging into that awful material, unwilling to let go. 'Dublin station is a long way away.'

'Ah, but Dublin will wait for us.' She shifted the dog from one arm to the other. 'I love you, my little treasure chest. Be a good girl, and stick with Ricey.'

'I will, ye. Love you too, Mummum.' 

'Here,' She pulled out a large colourful tin from her straw bag, 'Try to make a few friends too, maybe even have fun, will ye?'

'Don't fuss, Mother.' Mental Mundy took the tin, placing it on top of her trunk. 'You are making me nervous.'

'Don't be nervous, they'll love you. Who couldn't love you?' The Squib's eyes were filled with tears, and Draco had to avert his gaze, more out of embarrassment than respect for their privacy. After a few seconds of sniffling, she noisily blew her nose in handkerchief made of the same material as her distasteful shirt. 'Do you have everything? Wand? Money? All your books?'

'Wand?' Mundy gasped and her hands darted to her pockets. The Squib blanched.

'Rosamund Nott! Are you telling me you left your wand at home?!'

'Sure what would I need my wand for in a wizarding school? Don't be daft, Mam.' But even with her back to Draco, he could tell she was grinning. 'Of course I have my wand. Stop fussing.'

'Do you think you are being funny? You nearly gave me a heart attack!' 

'..be grand Mam..'

'..mind yourself, pet, write when you get there..'

Their voices got lost in the crowd, Draco's own mother embracing him in a clinical half-hug, his father shaking his hand, Vince grabbing his trunk and hauling it up the stairs, and before he knew it, he was sitting beside a window, Pansy pressed into his side, talking, talking, talking.

The scenery outside only just changed from London to the country hills when the door slid open, Maurice and his buckteeth appearing in the gap.

'Hi!' He grinned, and Theo jumped to his feet.

'Absolutely not!' He hissed, trying to slide the door closed, only Maurice's foot getting in the way of that.

'Oh, fuck off Theo. All the compartments are full, quit being a dick. It's just me and Mundy.'

Pansy sprang up too at that, pushing Theo aside. She slid the door wide open, getting a good look at Maurice, and Mental Mundy too, who attempted to shrink behind her cousin. Draco gleefully noted that she was taller than Maurice by a good few inches too. In the fluorescent light she looked even paler, sickly, and as she turned her head to the side, shyly avoiding the group’s direct gaze, she made a rather large scar on her right temple visible, shaped almost like a moon crescent. 

'Come on, Pansy.' Maurice said sheepishly, his shoulders defensively pulled up beside his protruding ears. 'Do you guys like shortbread..?' 

Vince and Greg perked up, sitting up so they could peer into the biscuit tin through Pansy.

Pansy didn't look impressed.

'This compartment is full.' She said, sending a disgusted look behind Maurice. 'I suppose we could make space for you, but _that_ is not sitting with us.'

Maurice's face darkened, and behind him, Mental Mundy stares even more intently to the ground, dead behind the eyes. She leaned forward to whisper something into his ear, but Maurice shook his head.

'No.' He tucked his tin under his arm. 'We'll find space somewhere else.' He slammed the door closed without saying goodbye, metal meeting metal in a deafening screech, glass rattling in its frame. Pansy sat back down, nearly patting herself on the shoulder with a job well done.

'I do like shortbread..' Vince grumbled, but the look on Pansy’s face shut him up quite efficiently.

'You don't want shortbread from her.' She said, slumping back into her seat. 'Merlin knows, I don't want to risk catching anything from Mundy..' 

Theo snorted, shuffling a pack of cards. 'You know that the Sacred disease is not contagious?'

'I don't want to risk being possessed, thank you very much.' She took the cards dealt, accidentally showing her entire hand to Draco. 

‘Don’t be daft, Pans.’ Blaise’s smooth, slow drawl, although quiet, filled the room. Blaise always had a way of capturing the entire room’s attention with minimal effort.

The bastard. 

‘The Sacred disease is not about possession. It’s just a neuromagical malfunction. No more harmful than a child’s uncontrolled magic.’ His graceful fingers came up to scratch his chin before throwing a five of pumpkins down.

'Aw, stuff it Blaise,' Pansy threw down a card, a five of bats, with much too flare, the card skidding over the pile, leaving a neat scorch mark on the side-table's lacquered surface, 'no one gives a toss about your nerdy shit.'

Blaise's only reply was a condescending ‘tsk’, and flicking the card back up.

‘My uncle Rod..’ Greg began as Pansy picked up another card, which -miraculously- exploded right in her face, her perfectly groomed eyebrows smouldering. Pansy shrieked and slapped the remaining cards against her forehead, while everyone else hid their grins behind fans of cards and rapid coughing fits. Blaise adjusted his cuffs, the tip of his wand slinking back inside his sleeve, ‘..he'd some weird shit going on up his head, like. Went to the Temple to get fixed and all.’ 

‘Bloody wicked, mate.’ Vince grunted, bending a six of bats, ruining the card.

‘Yeah, he went and pledged his soul to some weird demon, he'd become twice as fucked after to be honest..’ 

‘For Circe's sake, can we talk about something else?’ Pansy had her jewelled compact mirror out, the one with the tacky butterfly on top, inspecting her left eyebrow with great scrutiny. 

Draco, one the other hand, was losing the thread of the conversation, his mind zooming in on Vince’s hairy fingers twisting, creasing the card further and further.

‘Fine, what do you want to talk about?’ 

‘Ugh, literally anything else,' She was rummaging in her handbag, tubes of lipstick and violent pink candy wrappers spilling into Draco's lap, but he couldn't even find in himself the will to work himself up, not when a distinct white line was forming right across Vince's card’s shiny purple surface. The bats kept flapping their wings, but even their movements slowed down, becoming more lethargic..

‘..you know what, I actually got to go, find Millicent, she will have my shade of Madam Sourcil's Witchbrow..’

The card was nearly falling apart, the white breakline becoming wider and wider. That’s not the way cards are meant to be treated - if one gets damaged, the whole pack is ruined. 

‘...aw come on, leave it, the half brow look kinda suits you..’ 

It was just not the _order_ of things, to do this. What was Vince thinking? 

‘Fuck it, no, I cannot be seen like this in the Great Hall.’ She'd huffed, throwing her bag down and whizzing out the door, but Draco didn't look up, didn't even really notice, because finally, Vince had put the torn up six of bats on top of the pile, uncaring of how he’d upset Draco’s world.

Draco looked at his cards.

Looked back down, at that awfully damaged six of bats.

Draco was always taught about the importance of order - from the proper use of each tableware to his place in wizarding Britain’s hierarchy, things were always explained, they always made sense, events were always within the Malfoys' control.

Damage, when necessary, also made sense.

Tearing up a card, and so thoughtlessly ruining a whole pack - it was just madness. The cabin suddenly felt airless, an uncomfortable tightness spreading in his chest.

He picked up the pack.

Theo gleefully hollered, and restarted the round. 

Draco could breath again.

‘A bold move, old man,’ Blaise, a good few inches taller, peered over his shoulder. ‘Perchance would you like me to explain the rules of Exploding Snap? The aim is to lose your cards, you see, before they explode, not to collect them.’

Draco shrugged, and took his wand out to mend the card.

And then he sorted them like he always did, like he was taught by his father, who was taught by his father, and his father, and his father - highest to lowest, pumpkins first, than bats, than crows, and toads last.

Like how the order was meant to be.

oOo

The rest of the journey flew by, dotted with pleasant surprises.

Events quickly followed as they should have - a pissed off, clueless Potter, a deliciously horrid 1890s dress robe of Weasley, heavy downpour over the Scottish Highlands, a flurry of frightened first years scrambling for boats..

The right order of life.

He strolled through Hogsmeade platform, Crabbe and Goyle closely following by, other students stepping aside, making way for the three of them.

Like they should have. 

Ricey and Mental Mundy walked up a few feet ahead, surrounded by, surprisingly, the most popular girls Slytherin sixth year had offered. Servilia Baddock and Euphemia Rowle had their arms laced with Mundy's, throwing back their shiny locks from time to time, guffawing in the most unladylike fashion. Little Moira Travers had a suspiciously familiar rosetta pinned on top of her lush ponytail, and Ricey’s gangly arm wrapped around her shoulders.

'You're not hopping in girls?' Draco sneered spitefully, passing them staring at the dithering first years, the girls laughing and pointing at Hagrid, as he busied himself with herding a few uncooperative pupils back to the lake.

Servilia twisted a lock of auburn curl around her finger as she looked him up and down, with no small measure of distaste.

The look unnerved Draco; he realised with a pang that he may have misjudged the delivery of his playful message. Euphemia turned her button nose towards the air, her lips curling down, and the expression, so familiar from his mother's face when disappointed, hit Draco in the pit of his stomach.

'Who are you?' Mundy only glanced at him, vaguely curious. She stood just at the edge of the station, under the roof, water rapidly spraying out of the rain gutters beside her. Her Slytherin tie limply flicked in the weak draft.

'My name is Malfoy.' And when her face stayed blank and bored, he added. 'Draco Malfoy. I suppose you wouldn't know the importance of the Malfoy family, growing up with a squib in the backarse of Northern Ireland.'

Infuriatingly, she just continued to stare, unblinking. He could feel his face heating up.

'Malfoy, why don’t you go and stuff yourself,' Servilia turned to leave, pulling Mundy with her.

And yet, she stayed still, letting Servilia’s perfectly manicured nails fall away from her elbow, head slightly tilted, continuing her unnerving stare.

Her eyes, dark enough to give the effects of the irises and pupils melting into one, stayed on him, and a prickly feeling ran up Draco's nape, leaving goosebumps behind.

'Oh, I know all about your family, _Draco Malfoy_.' She said smoothly, a rueful smile playing on her lips. 'It's the backarse of the Republic of Ireland, anyhow.' 

' _Oh_ ,' he spat with fake affecting enunciation, mocking Mundy, 'My apologies, we clearly need to establish the difference between one potato eater and another.' 

Maurice's face took on a deep purple colouring, and even Moira looked affronted.

'Po..Po..Potat..' He stuttered, shaking with rage, and he looked so unimposing, Draco wanted to laugh.

He allowed a wicked grin to spread on his face.

'It’s not worth is, Ricey.' Euphemia turned to face the queue of students waiting on the horseless carriages. ‘Let’s get going, shall we?’ 

Maurice looked like he’d like to say a few more things on the matter, but Moira had pulled on his hand, and so he stomped away angrily, catching up with Servilia ahead.

As they strolled on, Euphemia leaned close to Mundy’s ear and whispered something, holding up her thumb and index finger to demonstrate a very short measurement of length. Mundy wrinkled her nose and grinned, shooting an amused look back at Draco before turning again, snickering into her free hand. 

Up close still, it had given Draco an unoccluded view of her reasonably straight teeth, with only the slightest gap between her upper incisors.

Such an unthreatening, imperfect, nearly endearing feature didn't belong amongst the sharp lines and icy scowls that made up Rosamund Nott's face.

It just didn't make sense. It just didn't align with the order of things.

Annoyingly, Draco couldn't stop thinking about it.

oOo

Mental Mundy, unfathomably, quickly rose amongst the ranks of Slytherin students.

The key to her success, Draco observed, was an absolute lack of respect to the carefully constructed order society has implemented. 

To give an example, the very first breakfast of the year, Mundy strolled in and established dominance over the table hierarchy Slytherins developed over years of painstakingly scheming. 

Newcomers always sat at the very end, far away from the entrance of the Great Hall, so by the _order of the Merlinsaken things_ , she should've sat with the first years there, or the very least, at the loser corner that consisted of outcasts like Maurice. 

The end of the table that was closest to the entrance was where persons of higher importance could take their rightful seat; such as Draco himself, the Slytherin Quidditch team, and a few select seventh years. This year's head boy, Robert Yaxley, Slytherin's pride and joy sat at the best seat. For a reason too: not only a prominent pureblood, Student of Transfiguring Diligence (STD) award winner five times in a row, a handsome womaniser and notorious legend, Robert was possibly the coolest person Slytherin had in the past three decades (since Draco's own father, who sat at this very end of the table on every single Hogwarts photo taken of him, devastatingly good-looking and _cool_ ). 

Amongst his many wondrous values, Robert was known for being extremely easy going and good natured; values that were not commonly appreciated by the classic Slytherin student body, but regardless, important Head Boy qualities. Only two things pissed off Robert: if anyone used a nickname for his given name, or if anyone mentioned his middle name. 

Long story short, Mundy marched into the Great Hall on the second of September, right up to Robert Yaxley, and slammed an open palm against the sturdy oak table so every glass and plate rattled in the vicinity, and said:

'Sweet Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph!' She laughed, her disgusting, intriguing grin imprinted into Draco's memory once again. 'If it isn't BOB MERCURY!'

And unbelievably, Robert Yaxley, STD stud and precious Slytherin Head Boy, threw his arms around her and grinned ear-to-ear, and replied back: 'Well if it isn't my favourite cousin!' 

And worst of all, he then turned to Draco, upsetting years of predictable order, and said to him: 'Budge up, Draco.'

Draco’s brain short-circuited at the injustice, and this momentary lapse of his senses could be the only contributing factor why he, without so much as arguing, moved up on the bench, making space for Mundy’s bony bottom. 

‘Thanks, _Draco_.’ The grin turned into a condescending little smile, and Draco had to fight the urge to push her off the bench straight away.

What a bint.

'It's unfortunate they couldn't sort you into a house with your spirit animal.' Draco straightened up in his seat, in the background Vince and Greg already reliably sniggering into their breakfasts.

'Hmm.' Mundy didn't even look in his direction, buttering her toast with great concentration.

'I suppose Helga Hufflepuff could have chosen a demented beaver,' He continued, leaning in, 'You would've fitted right in.'

Robert laughed the loudest, slapping Draco's back over Mundy. She'd asked Montague to pass the jam, and displayed no reaction.

'You know, cause the big aul' gap between..' Greg helpfully added, right on cue for another round of laughter.

'Yes, I got it hun, no need to explain.' Mundy finally said then, violently cutting the toast in triangles. 'Ha-ha, you are so funny. What else have you got? Do you wanna ask me if I floss with a rope? Dress up as Jack O'Lantern for Halloween? Could drive the Hogwart's Express between my teeth? Tell you what.' She threw the knife down, a loud clatter cutting the stunned silence. 'I may have buckteeth, but at least I don't to cover up my lack of personality with shitty old jokes.'

She'd then turned back to Robert, who infuriatingly laughed _again_ , and didn't play any mind to Draco and his outraged entourage.  

And so forth, every morning, she sat there, between him and Robert, talking about subjects Draco didn't understand (he was still undecided whether 'magical camogie' was a sport exclusive for witches, or a feminist method of torture), or subjects he did not care for (a thirty five minute argument on whether or not Transfiguration was a useless class: Draco found "In what scenario would I be in a desperate need for an iron, _and_ the only available transfiguree is a fecking racoon?!" a compelling argument).

From time to time, he tried to join in, but subsequently, the conversation always turned forced and sour. Draco's first impression was that (bafflingly) Mundy didn't care for him much. She never said good morning, never asked how he was, never really even made eye contact with him. She looked him in the eye properly for the first time in months when Draco passed out his _Potter Stinks_ badges, and even then, the icy chill of her gaze lingered on Draco's mind the rest of that morning, the badge intended for her (a better one Draco had picked specifically as a gesture of an olive branch!) left on the saucer beside her empty tea cup.

The more uncaring Mundy was, the more intrigued Draco became. He listened and paid attention, first unwittingly, and later on, a bit more on purpose. He listened to Mundy and Robert every morning; even when he opened letters and packages from home; even after Victor Krum began to sit on the other side of him; even when the Great Hall was buzzing with the newest gossip of Harry Potter and the Triwizard Tournament. 

Unwittingly on purpose, he couldn't keep his pointy nose out of Mental Mundy's day-to-day life.

Mundy liked to talk, and talk a lot at that. Always full of chat, spluttering random facts and pointing out ridiculous little observations, Draco wished he could stuff his ears with cotton wool and cast an _Evanesco!_ at her, and yet he also found himself straining his neck to keep his ear closer. After a particularly long rant to Pansy about it, disturbingly, she turned to him and said: "You are only obsessed with her so much because she doesn't care for you at all- come on Draco, you do this all the time".

This had left Draco sore for a good while.

But this was different, and in many ways too! Mundy had been intriguing for many reasons (outside of Draco's control, that is!), such as her curious habit of constantly losing her wand, and being particularly bad at subjects that involved a substantial amount of wand-work. For example, she claimed that Charms increased the frequency of her seizures by a tenfold, and was constantly excused from it, which was especially interesting in the light of the fact that Draco had overheard her confiding to Servilia Baddock in the library that she was "totally fine", and hadn't had an attack "in ages".

Her love-and-hate relationship with Transfiguration and Professor McGonagall was amusing, and sometimes, downright baffling. Draco had walked into class one particular frosty Thursday afternoon to find Mundy backed into the corner by the professor, insisting that the only reason she stared blankly was because McGonagall bored her "shiteless". 

McGonagall rewarded the behaviour with a week of detention and a trip to the Infirmary.

Another puzzling discovery was that Mundy gathered a good bit of attention from the lads. This was puzzling not because Mundy was ugly, but she wasn't someone Draco would have described as a 'classic beauty' either - she was too tall, too thin, too pale, her personality with too much bite. She never wore make up, and although she had nice long lashes and a good bone structure, the circles under her eyes were so pronounced and purple, often she looked like she had two black eyes. Permanent sneer on her face, she gave the impression of a pissed off racoon that would rather scratch your eyes out than let you pet her. 

Anyway, her preferred company was restricted to girls and male relatives, no matter how much Lucian Bole and Peregrine Derrick tried to win her heart. This, combined with her aversion to wands, fired up the rumours that she was a frigid lesbian. 

Pansy gleefully spread this information to anyone who listened. Miffed that attention was momentarily directed somewhere else, and despite hypocritical comments previously, Pansy complained an awful lot about Mundy too: how boys were only interested in her 'cause she needed a good "reining in", and that if she "had a proper upbringing, no one would give a dung about her". During an especially mind-bogglingly boring History of Magic class, Pansy hinted that she believed Mundy's father to be Antonin Dolohov, who took advantage of Mr Nott's squib sister back in the day. Just after the bell signalling the end of the class rang, she stood and said "I guess, she's pretty okay, you know, for a rape-kid."

Draco had sorted a pack of Exploding Snaps half the night after that.

High to low, pumpkins, bats, crows, toads.

Mundy had many redeeming qualities, no matter what Pansy thought. As annoying as it was, she had gained a strange sort of respect from students and teachers alike; even from bloody creatures and plants. Frigid lesbian or not, several favourable whispers circulated around Hogwarts about her - for instance, how apparently she aced Care of Magical Creatures with minimal effort. Students talked about Hippogriffs bowing first upon meeting her, Blast-Ended Skrewts obeying only her commands, Jarveys acting polite if she was around. Similarly, in Herbology, the Self-fertilising shrubs licked her hands as if they were enthusiastic plant-puppies, the Venomous Tentaculas rendered docile as she cooed at them dopily.

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Pumpkins, bats, crows, toads. Why must she go against all logical order of life?

Draco didn't give much credit to Mundy's good side until Professor Snape had invited her to the Potions Club, one dreary mid-November Sunday. When she strolled in, twelve minutes late, shirt buttoned up the wrong way and sleep still in her eyes, Professor Snape just grunted and told her to sit down beside Draco.

This situation alone shouldn't have sent Draco's heart galloping like a herd of centaurs, but it did. He also, understandably, did not wish to examine this reaction any closer than necessary.

'As I said, we are going to concentrate on individual ingredient analysis for the next little while.' Professor Snape drawled on, as if Draco's world wasn't dangerously about to topple over.

The professor placed glass jars of mushrooms on his desk, pointing a wand at the blackboard, chalk flying up to scribe his each and every word.

Beside him, Mundy loudly sighed, and fidgeted with the clasp of her battered satchel.

Draco rubbed his eyebrow, and attempted to concentrate on the professor.

After a few seconds, she managed to pull a large leather bound notebook free, and began to jot down some notes. Whenever she did so, her quill scratched loudly against the page, as if she was engraving the wooden desk rather than delicate parchment.

_Scratch, scratch, scratch._

'The study of toadstools are a notoriously difficult and mysterious path of science. Could someone tell me why would that be?'

Blaise's smooth voice answered behind him. 'They all look the bloody same.' 

Draco allowed himself a little smirk and a low chuckle.

__Scratch, scratch, scratch_._

Surely, his increasing pulse was only due to Mundy being an irritating bit. Turning his head to shoot her a reproachful look, he found her bent over the pages, notes scribbled left, right, and centre. The cuffs of her shirt sleeves were ink stained, buttoned tightly around her wrists. Her hands and fingers were covered in the faintest, smallest smatter of scars, only visible up close and from a certain angle of the torch's light.

'Yes, that is a good point, Mr Zabini. And why would this be dangerous?'

A sharp  _pop!_ came from his right side, and when he turned, Euphemia chewed noisily with her mouth open on something suspiciously blue-bell coloured. When she caught Draco's eyes, she winked saucily, and blew another bubble.

'Because it's hard to distinguish between what's edible and what's poisonous.' She said following another burst of her gum.

'Correct. Miss Rowle, I think we discussed my aversion to Drooble's Best Blowing Gum.'

'Ah, but Professor, your blowing days might be behind you,' she continued, maintaining eye contact, 'but that shouldn't ruin our fun, really. It's our Sunday off - don't be so strict, Sir.' 

Just as Draco's heart rate was about to slow down! Mundy laughed, a quiet, tinkling giggle, teeth with gap on full display. To make matters worse, she leaned over Draco to mouth "ballsy bitch" towards Euphemia, and Draco got a faceful of her perfume.

Sweet, pure, undiluted scent of lilacs, as fresh as spring's first blossom in the Malfoy's garden.

He gripped the edge of the desk, scared that he will pass out from the sheer force of the hammering in his chest.

He hoped it would go unnoticed, but of course Mundy chose this very moment to realise who she was sitting next to. She slanted a sideways glance at him, and then loudly hissed at Euphemia. 'Fifi, stop that, you are offending young Malfoy's senses.'

Draco could feel the heat creep up his neck, and the desk vibrating behind him from Blaise's snicker.

'Merlin knows why I put myself through this on _my_ Sundays off.' Professor Snape wisely selected to ignore the general upheaval of the room. 'Rowle, gum, in the bin, now. Who can tell me what's in this first jar?'

'Oh, Sir!' A hand shot up beside Draco, who was still fighting with the humiliating turn of events. Euphemia winked again before she got up an sauntered over to the bin.

'Go on, Miss Nott.' 

'If I'm not mistaken, that is _amantia phalloides.'_ Her fake modesty made Draco's stomach turn, and he hated how much she reminded him of Hermione Granger. 'Also known as death-caps. They are the most poisonous of all known toadstools, as well as, the leading cause of human deaths due to mushroom poisoning. This is due to the fact that they look very similar to other edible mushroom types, such as caesar's mushroom, or straw mushroom. The toxins found in this type of toadstool are thermostable, meaning their toxicity won't lessen if you freeze or cook them, like it would say with mushrooms such as fly amantia. It's also widely known in the muggle community due to its immobility, and as such, toxicity won't be altered by movement either, unlike in many more magically associated mushrooms, for example..'

'The leaping toadstool.' Draco cut her off, partly because she was bloody annoying, more so because he couldn't bear how her eyes brightened, her body tensed and vibrated with the raw passion of her stupid infatuation with mushrooms. 'However, I disagree with you. Death-caps are not the most dangerous type of toadstools. Deadlyus regularly disguises itself as a common, edible type of mushroom, to lure victims in, and is known as the only flesh-eating magical type toadstool. The statistics are skewed because it's difficult to account for all deadlyus deaths. They are often recorded as mushroom poisoning due to other types of mushrooms, missing chunks of flesh contributed to wild scavenger animals taking advantage of the situation..' 

Mundy rolled her eyes.

’Deadlyus is just another name of deathcaps, get over yourself..’ 

‘There has been plenty of scientific evidence to note the subtle differences between the two species, you uneducated cow!’ 

‘Where did you read that? Let me guess, _Big Headed Mysogynists Today_?’ 

‘No, it was _Pioneering Potioners_ , if you must know! June 1992, special edition, on common misconceptions and unique ingredients! I’m not sexist just because you are an unread bimbo!’ Voice trembling, sweat prickling his neck, but Draco did not back down. The. Nerve. Of. This. Girl.

Mundy's gaze locked on his face, a broad smile slowly turning into a wider grin. She turned to Professor Snape, nodding towards Draco. 'Good God, you might be more than a big headed tosser.' And every resemblance she had to Granger melted away at once. Professor Snape just rolled his eyes, but gave a look to Draco that could have nearly been labelled as fond. He brought over another jar to their table, an innocent-looking button mushroom sitting limply at the bottom of it. 

'This is a deadlyus. It can be your and Miss Nott's pet project for the next couple of weeks.' He placed the jar carefully between the two of them. 'I trust you with this because of your clear interest in the subject. Be warned, this toadstool is extremely dangerous, only to be handled with the upmost care, and wearing dragon hide gloves on. Eye-protection is also advised.' Before he even finished the sentence, Mundy was strapping her goggles on, shoving everything else on the desk aside.

It really shouldn't have been charming, but it was.

Draco couldn't stop thinking about it, even after the club session ended. He must have accidentally exposed himself to the deadlyus, because his skin felt raw and blotchy, so prickly, he wanted to peel his own face off.

The next day Professor Snape couldn't find anything wrong with him. He did say “Not this again, Draco.”, which statement alone confused Draco a great deal. At least he gave him a hair regrowth lotion for his eyebrows. 

oOo

So maybe, Rosamund Nott wasn't _that_ tall, _that_ thin, _that_ pale, her personality perhaps not _that_  biting as first judged.

With the deadlyus project, he finally had common grounds with Mundy. And it was nice, because this had brought many changes to their relationship: she often said good morning, and nodded to him even when she just saw him at passing on the corridors. She had asked how he was, what had he been up to, sometimes even turning away from Robert to listen solely to Draco. One glorious December morning she even defended him when Bole called him ‘Ferret Face’ again.

She began to moon over Draco's eagle owl while he sorted through his mail, feeding scraps of her breakfast to Aquila. The bloody bird was embarrassingly keen on Mundy, but Draco found it difficult to argue against these sentiments himself, so he let them be.

Mundy had carried the deadlyus _everywhere_. The jar was now equipped with a permanent warming and humidity charm, the toadstool shifting into a different agaricus every day. Of these developments, Mundy composed daily verbal and written reports for Draco, much to his delight. She had named it _Dee, the Friendly Fun Guy_.

It had all geared up fantastically towards Christmas.

A week before the Yule Ball, Draco smeared the hair regrowth lotion on his eyebrows, slapped his cologne on, and gathered all his courage to approach Mundy.

 _I think we should go, as friends,_ Draco practiced, _I think it would be nice, what do you say?_

No matter what way he phrased it, they all sounded horribly-nauseatingly embarrassing.

He wanted to ask at breakfast, but then, he did note that it is an awfully public place to be rejected. So, instead he sat and listened to the adventures of Dee, the FFG, stories ranging from 'And did you know, did you know, if you entice him with raw beef, he will jump six foot high? Imagine that!' to 'Fifi nearly brew him into her shroom tea, poor little Dee-Dee, what would I do without you?', cooing at the glass jar like it wasn't responsible for (possibly) 27 muggle deaths a year.

Anyway, so he left the whole unpleasant Yule Ball business until first break, but sure, Mundy was nowhere to be found at the Courtyard. At lunch she sat with a gaggle of female Slytherins, not an approachable ground in Draco’s humble opinion. (He still found it hard to engage eye contact with Euphemia Rowle, so he delayed things (again).)

Surprisingly, Maurice had saved the day when he turned to Draco and said 'Hey, if you've got the time, we will have a bit of cake and a few butterbeers for Theo's fifteenth tomorrow.'

Draco had agreed hastily, hoping to work up the courage by then.

Mundy must have been very busy on the last teaching day before Christmas - Draco only managed to get her in passing, and she didn't even wait for him to respond to her rushed "howiya". 

It had been an unnerving experience to say the least. 

Draco had reapplied the hair regrowth twice since the morning, sitting restlessly in the Slytherin common room. Mundy arrived nearly an hour late, ink smeared over her nose, a leaflet on Apparation sticking out from her back pocket.

'Happy birthday, sweetest little Toto!' Theo received a hug more like a chokehold, and yet, Draco had to suppress the flare of envy in the pit of his stomach. 'My gift to you is that I took my potions this morning, _and_ I did my neuromagical exercises with Madam Pomfrey. So no funny business tonight! Are you proud?'

'Super proud.' Theo murmured into the neck of a butterbeer bottle.

'Ricey and myself also gotten you a signed jersey by Aidan Lynch.' She pulled out a haphazardly wrapped present from her satchel. 'I hope you find it up to your standards.'

Theo ripped the package out of her hands before she even had time to turn to him. Emerald green quidditch jersey with Aidan Lynch's loopy cursive over its shoulder tumbled out of the brown wrapping paper, and Theo's face lit up like _Lumos_ in a dark room. 'Bloody hell..'

'You like it?' 

'Yeah!' He threw himself into a group hug with Mundy and Ricey, who both looked extremely smug. 'It's wicked!! How did you manage it?'

Both of them faltered at that.

'Oh you know..'

'He's actually really good with his fanmail..'

'Very helpful guy, Aidan Lynch is..'

'What does it _really_ matter, how we got it..'

Theo seemed to be satisfied enough with the explanation.

'Let me try it on! Be back in a sec!' And he sprinted up the boy's dormitory stairs.

'So how did you really get it?' Draco asked, once Theo disappeared.

Ricey kept shrugging, making noncommittal sounds.

'Aw, come on guys,' Pansy tucked her legs under herself, seating herself unnecessarily within the realms of Draco's personal space.

Mundy looked out into the gloomy darkness of the lake.

'He's my neighbour.'

'Aidan Lynch is your neighbour?!' Pansy shrieked, piercing Draco's eardrums. 'Why didn't you just say so?'

'Because,' Mundy dug her hands into her pockets, still not looking at them, 'He only did it 'cause he loves my mother.'

'What.'

'Yeah, my mam used to babysit him all the time. He's only, like, seven-eight years older than us? He used to come to my house all the time and eat all the shortbread. He gave mum tickets for the World Cup, but she had to work, and I didn't really want to go.' Mundy was looking at her reflection on the window, a wry smile plastered on her face.

'He's not that good of a Seeker, really.' The sentence slipped out of Draco's mouth before he could stop himself. And then, the realisation hit him as if a branch of the Whomping Willow bashed his chest in - this is why he can't ask Mundy to the Yule Ball, not even as friends. Him, a prominent pureblood family's heir, Mundy, a Squib's illegitimate rape-child, not to mention, neuromagically damaged..

They just didn't mix.

It just didn’t fit the order of things.

Ricey gave him a dirty look, but otherwise no one reacted to his comment.

'Are you still going home tomorrow?' Ricey said instead.

'Aye. I miss my mother, my friends, even that menace of a dog.' Mundy pulled up her shoulders, her composure rigid, lost in thought, not looking at Draco, not looking at anyone. 'I should get packing, really. Excuse me.'

And she left without so much as a backwards glance.

'Can you believe that?' Greg butted in. '"Didn't really want to go"! To the Quidditch World Cup!'

'Too much flashing lights.' Was all Ricey said, even his prominent ears drooping down slightly.

When Theo came back, he still had the same pained expression on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Any feedback much appreciated!


	3. The Colour Yellow

And that pained expression stayed on Maurice's face for a long time after too. 

The news of Mrs Nott's critical condition came on New Year's morning, and Theo -

Theo was inconsolable.

He kept wiping his face onto his robe's sleeve, saturated with tears and snots, eyes bloodshot and red rimmed. He blindly threw discarded clothes from around his bed into his trunk, packing one of Draco's slippers and Greg's pyjama bottoms in his blind frenzy.

Neither of them pointed this out to him.

They didn't say anything either, when he pulled on the strap of his school bag, tilting it over, vial after vial of potions smashing to the floor, bright purple and sticky, the room filling with the pungent smell of valerian root.

Theo threw himself on his bed, sobbing into his pillow even louder.

Vince scratched his chin and looked at Draco questioningly, but Draco didn't know what to do either.

Blaise was the brave one at the end, perched at the edge of Theo's bedding, half-ready to bolt and run. He gently placed a hand on Theo's shoulder, murmuring something that Theo couldn't possibly hear in his distress.

Maurice walked in then.

A little bit paler, his eyes a little bit shinier than normal, but he looked as he always did - gangly, toothy, unwaveringly repelling.

He stopped beside Theo's bed, and said: 'Come on, let's go before it's too late. You can have a meltdown after.'

Theo screamed into his pillow.

Ricey didn't even flinch - he picked up one of the unbroken vials from the ground, and nudged Theo until he sat up and knocked it back.

He still looked like an absolute fright, but he stopped crying, which was an improvement. Draco stepped closer, and closed Theo's trunk. When he straightened up, Ricey was staring at him, pleading.

'Come on, mate.' Blaise hauled Theo up in a standing position.

He looked utterly and devastatingly pathetic.

His face red and swollen, a horrible cowlick at the side of his head, shirt rumpled, gagging on either the potion or his nerves, it was difficult to tell.

Before he knew it, Draco's wand was out, and he was fixing Theo's face.

'You must look your best. For Mrs Nott.' He babbled, between a drying charm to Theo's sleeve and an ironing spell to his shirt. 'You know she doesn't stand for scruffiness.' He said about the woman who has been permanently shit-faced for most of her life, and regardless, he continued, a swift _Terego_ , a slap of soothing lotion, and Theo nearly resembled himself again.

'Thanks, pal.'

'Tell anyone, and you won't be thanking me ever again.'

Theo chuckled wetly. 'Sure. Merlin forbid it gets out that you did something decent.'

Blaise roughly rubbed a few drops of Sleakeazy's into Theo's hair, and Vince turned his back to rummage around his own trunk. 

'Here, I was meant to give this to my mother for Christmas.. I dropped it and it accidentally opened. Anyway, long story short, they are really nice. Majority of them still there too. I think Mrs Nott would like them, you know. Anyway. I think, like. You don't have to, like. ' Vince thrusted the box of half-eaten bonbons from Honeydukes to Ricey, who took them. Theo glared at the ceiling, like it personally offended him, squinting and blinking rapidly.

Greg's nightstand had a little potted plant, a sort of pine shrub with little yellow flowers on it. He picked it up.

'Here. Flowers and chocs. Gran always said, never go see a lady without them two.' Theo features softened as he smiled weakly, his gaze still fixed upwards.

'Alright, wee brother. We better get going.' Ricey tucked the little shrub under his arm, freeing up the other to pick Theo's trunk up.

Theo finally faced them, determination etched on his face.

'Yeah, we better.' He said, and they went on.

oOo

It was the first weekend of the year when Draco and his parents shuffled through the ankle deep snow of Frair's Bush Graveyard, towards the Plot of the Notts.

'Do you know what happened to her?' Mr Burke asked Mr Malfoy, as they crossed the muggle repelling gate of the cemetery.

'Anyone's guess is as good as mine.' Father said nonchalantly, throwing a sideways glance at Draco.

It was not what he had said three nights prior, when the news arrived and Mother locked herself into her boudoir, the two of them sitting on the floor outside her door.

'I thought she didn't like Mrs Nott.' Draco murmured, digging his fingers deeper into his pockets.

'Merlin help the first man who will understand how witches' mind works.' Father had kicked off his dragon hide boots, flexing his socked toes back and forth. 'They could probably tell us why on earth the wife of a respectable Ministry official decided to off herself with a gallon of Noxious potion. This can really harm Mr Nott.'

'What do you mean, Father?' Draco dutifully asked, because he felt like he should. _Why on earth_ was Father more concerned with Mr Nott's work position when he just lost his wife was beyond his understanding.

'He was angling for a promotion as the head of Improper Use of Magic Office. You know, Mr Nott is getting on, he's nearly 82. Sixty years, he devoted to the Ministry. And then his wife goes and selfishly kills herself in the most inconvenient manner, with a highly regulated, classified potion like that..'

Mother sobbed louder inside, and Father scrambled to his feet, knocking on the wood of the door gently.

'Darling? I'm coming in, is that alright, darling?' 

The door stayed locked. Father sighed, and turned back to Draco.

'Draco, do yourself a favour.. Marry a witch who is not an absolute nightmare.' He tried the doorknob again, jiggling it unsuccessfully.

The door opened, and Mother stepped out, fresh as a daisy, looking strikingly like her everyday self.

'Preferably a pureblood, still.' She sniffled, her handkerchief briefly touching the delicate skin under her eye. 'Where did your shoes go, Lucius?'

'Ehm..'

'I turn my back for a second, and the whole place falls to anarchy.' With a flick of her wand, the discarded boots levitated front of Father, lining up perfectly. Draco sheepishly stood up as well, dusting off his robes.

Much like dust, snow was settling on the small quaint temple of Frair's Bush. The priestess, a plain and portly woman dressed in royal blue, greeted each an every attendee at the stone arch. 

'I know, so soon after Yule's celebration..' Her hood fell back an inch, a flare of fiery red hair tumbling out. 'It is a real tragedy, isn't it, Mrs Borgin?'

Mrs Borgin nodded dutifully, clasping her husband's elbow with unease.

Mr Burke, who was busy talking still, turned to the priestess.

'Oh, I am glad to see you Vivienne, even in such sad circumstances.' He bowed theatrically and moved on in a rapid manner only used by most when at unease. 

'Thank you, Mr Burke. Merlin be with you.' She waved after him, amused.

Draco stepped forward, and the priestess turned to look at him.

Her eyes, a curious mixture of icy grey and vivid blue reminded Draco instantly of a storm at sea. She reached out, drawing a seven-pointed star on his forehead - though her hands appeared dry, her fingers left a cold, wet residue behind. 

Draco suppressed a shiver, and waited until she looked away to wipe his face. By doing so, he nearly walked into the line of benches Blaise occupied.

'Merlin be with you.' He said with a grin, and moved up on his seat to make space for Draco.

'Where's your mother?' Draco said, looking for Mrs Zabini in the crowd.

'You know she thrives on funerals.' Blaise straightened his robes, pointing at his mother in the far distance, wearing an exasperatingly wide rimmed cartwheel hat. She was talking to Mr Nott, affectionately patting his hand ever so often.

'If you are not careful, you might end up with the Snotts for step brothers.' 

'Ha-ha.' Blaise rolled his eyes, but smiled anyway. 'Mother wouldn't go for a man with the same modus operandi.'

'You recon ol' Oren offed Lucretia?' Draco wiped his sweaty palms against his trousers. 

'A rather distasteful discussion for a funeral, don't you think?' Pansy, who was sitting a row ahead of them, decided to join their conversation. Mr and Mrs Parkinson was also up at the front, talking with Grandmother Nott. Or, presumably, Grandmother Nott; her face was covered by a heavy, thick, black veil.

Pansy looked lovely though - her bob cut tucked neatly under her black bowler hat, she wore deep burgundy lipstick. Her cloak was trimmed with black fur, her hands covered with suede gloves - she embodied the picture perfect pureblood girl.

His eyes lingered on her diamond earring, and Pansy stared back, lips slightly parted, one eyebrow arching questioningly.

'Merlin, just snog each other already.' Blaise picked up an invisible lint off his knee, fussing with the line of his trousers.

'Oh shut it, Zabini.' Pansy's cheeks flooded with colour, and she whipped her head around with frightening speed. 

'What? You already did, so what's the big deal?' Blaise grimaced, his voice thinning and cracking with badly disguised jealousy.

What Blaise didn’t know was that he needn’t worry; at least not from Draco’s end. Pansy’s feelings had always been a one-sided pash as far as he was concerned. 

Father had warned against close friends. “Blood is everything, Draco” he used to say, “Can’t trust no one but your own”, he used to drone on and on, and Draco listened and listened.

In a strange way, he was jealous of Harry Potter for that the most; how he integrated himself with the Weasleys and Granger, how quickly he adapted and belonged.

How quickly he was loved.

Even more so, Draco envied the Yaxleys and Notts. Brothers, siblings, other children their age who are not thick as dung like Crabbe and Goyle. What a glorious life they live, Draco thought bitterly as he watched Theo rest his forehead on Mundy’s shoulder. He looked the same as that frightful New Year’s morning, shiny eyed and haphazardly put together, albeit at least quiet and calm, a strange, vacuous expression on his face. Mental Mundy squeezed his hand, and didn’t let go. She wore what looked like a posh, tailored mourning robe, unadorned yet sophisticated. Her clothes were too severe for a 16 year old girl, and washed her out - she was sickly pale, her dark circles even more pronounced, her hair limply falling from under her black pillbox hat. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, on the closed casket containing Mrs Nott's body.

His whole life Draco followed his Father’s footsteps. He treated people like chess pieces; a careful calculation of investment versus benefit of relationships, a cold clinical evaluation of other’s worth that he carried out since his shorts-wearing days. He had no real friends, no close relatives; intertwined as pureblood family trees were, no cousin popped by the afternoons for a game of Quidditch, no aunts came by for a cup of tea.

Stuck in the tower he built from all his privilege and prestige, Draco Malfoy was a very lonely boy.

'Are you okay, darling?' Father had gone to mingle with others, but Mother sat down beside him, her lace covered fingers brushing his. 'Funerals are very sad events, aren't they?' 

‘They are.’ Draco had agreed, although he felt mournful for a completely different reason.

oOo

Two weeks later the Notts returned, and life -for describing it in any better way- went on.

Of course, there were changes. Some expected; Theo cried himself to sleep every night, and spent more time with Maurice. Some unexpected; Maurice became more popular than ever before, and Mundy suddenly couldn't stand to be near anyone. Some downright inexplicable; several girls bathroom from the towers down to the dungeons were regularly and randomly eviscerated, flooding sewage water and shrieking-bitching females wherever Draco went. 

Anyway, so Mundy abruptly stopped coming to the Dining Hall altogether, which was fine really, as long as Draco was concerned, truly. She did the same with most of her classes; in the first month of the new semester, she was in some sort of detention every night for either skiving or "forgetting" her homework. If not stuck in the Trophy Room with Filch, she could be found outside, near Greenhouse 5, which was set aside for the Herbology Society. Greenhouse 5 quickly turned into the "Yellowhouse", as the little shrub Greg gave Ricey some time ago inexplicably ended up in there, overtaking every and all fertile patch of soil, prickly branches bending from the sheer weight of yellow buds, the rancid smell, much like Sleakeazy's overpowering even the fresh air outside. 

'It's like coconuts,' Greg helpfully supplied, 'It can be quite nauseating, when gorse is in full bloom.'

Bloody hell, it was, and Draco had to walk faster to get to Greenhouse 3 for lessons, squinting from his watering eyes.

But even this temporary luminous yellow tranquility of Mundy's was short lived; Hufflepuff and company was quick to reclaim territory; Neville Longbottom, ever the brave, asked her to leave. He ended up a night in the Infirmary, while Mundy did another night in detention.

This seemed to be the new order of things.

After the loss of Greenhouse 5, Mundy became even more bitter and withdrawn. In fact, the last time Draco saw Perregrine Derrick attempt conversation, she had responded with a “Piss off, you wanker”.

This had left Draco flushed with warm affection in his chest, and a surprising amount of time spent pondering on the existence of soulmates.

Unsurprisingly, his glow didn’t last long.

It was mid-March, when things got out of hand. The gorse had spread outside the Greenhouse, golden shrubs blossoming by Hagrid's hut, by the lake, even near the Quidditch pitch. Mundy's lanky figure could be often found bending over one of these, tending, tending, tending, Dee the FFG tied to her satchel with a string, jar bobbing in the sunshine. She'd looked more mental than ever, more sleep deprived too, her movements turning sluggish, her skin resembling both the colour and texture of parchment. The blank stares intensified in strength and duration, and then things began to disappear.

It started with Hufflepuff ties, which quickly escalated into the disappearances of yellow scarves, hats, gloves. The entire Hufflepuff team's Quidditch uniform.

Nobody really cared, apart from the Quidditch team and Professor Sprout maybe, but with the Triwizard Tournament in full fanfare, voices of worry were quickly dismissed, and life went on apace.

That is, until Professor Snape, and one doomed Sunday morning.

He'd come in with his usual air of destruction and hatred, robe dramatically flaring in the wind of his determined steps, a new glass jar half hidden in the folds of his cloak.

They had long moved on from toadstools, which progress Mundy didn't seem to have a grasp of yet. In fact, she looked batshit crazy, twitching and murmuring to herself from time to time, protectively cradling Dee, a single broken quill resting front of her on her desk. Euphemia shifted to the edge of her seat, seemingly to provide as much distance between herself and Mundy as she could.

Professor Snape stopped front of the class, placing a queer looking purple flower front of them.

'Today, we will explore the properties of _Digitalis_ ,' the chalk behind him came to life, as usual, scribbling notes on the blackboard, 'Also known as foxgloves. Any of you imbeciles heard of it before?'

Draco hadn't, and judging from his classmates perplexed expression, neither have they. The flower looked like a deformed subtype of bluebells; utterly ordinary and boring. Mundy stopped muttering, and looked everywhere, but the new jar.

'How unsurprising.' A muscle in Professor Snape's jaw bunched, which could either indicate that he was delighted with life or that he was utterly furious. 'What are you waiting for? Parchments and quills out, your notes won't write themselves!'

There was a general noisiness where they all scrambled to push their cauldrons aside, and take out notebooks instead. 

'Fucking ingredients again..' Blaise murmured and rolled his eyes. 'Why the fuck do we bother to get up so early on a Sunday for this?'

'I'm sorry, am I boring you?' The professor's crooked nose was only inches away from Blaise's perfectly straight one. 'WHERE'S YOUR QUILL, ZABINI?' He yelled, and Blaise nearly fell off his chair, diving into his bag looking for any sort of writing utensil.

Professor Snape looked highly satisfied by this.

'Foxgloves!' He exclaimed again, turning on his heel. 'Used in Healing, mostly.. would anyone like to hazard a guess, what area?'

Silence. Twelve pairs of terrified eyes fixed on Professor Snape; one, Mundy's, fixed straight on the floor tiles below her desk.

'Merlin, give me strength.' His gaze swept through them all, unimpressed. 'Foxgloves are used in the area of NEUROMAGICOLOGY.' He bellowed. 'Some of you might be more familiar with this than others.' He smirked, looking very pointedly at Mundy. 

Twelve pairs of eyes darted at her. She looked pitiful, squeezing the jar closer to her chest, eyes shut tight. 

'Hm.' Was all Professor Snape commented, as if unimpressed by the response. 'Foxgloves are the main ingredients used for potions combating magical-type seizures. They are not always the most effective, however, and patients, often in their frustration, indulge, and intake more than the prescribed dosage.' He stepped back to the board, and grabbed the levitating chalk, underlining the word 'indulge' twice. 'What problems might arise? Anyone?' 

Silence. Mundy looking like she's about to cry. Twelve pairs of eyes watching.

'Liver function failure?' Brave, brave Ernie Macmillan's shaky voice broke the tension.

'Hm.' Brows wrinkling, the professor turned towards him. 'What else?'

Nothing.

'Fine.' He threw the chalk back into its container at the side of the board. 'If someone is so idiotic as to exceed the toxicity levels,' he stepped towards Mundy, whose abnormally tall figure seemed to shrink by the minute, 'they might find that they have a certain new fascination with the colour yellow. Would you agree with this statement, Miss Nott?'

Mundy didn't answer, but a single tear rolled down her cheek, into her lap. Ernie on the other side of the room looked to miserably uncomfortable, and even Draco's cold heart twinged with something akin to sympathy.

'Insomnia, vomiting, nausea, loss of appetite,' Professor Snape drove on, unrelenting, 'Worsening of seizures? Who would've thought?' His voice dripping with sarcasm. 'Mr Macmillan here might testify for the annoyance you caused for the house Hufflepuff,' Ernie opened his mouth to retort, but then seemingly couldn’t decide what to say exactly, opening and closing his mouth over and over like a stupid Gulping Plimpy, 'But even that won't amount to the number of complaints coming from Filch and infuriating female student body, about the _Merlindamned bathrooms_.' 

Mundy started to sob; an ugly, snottful, blotchy cry. 

Twelve pairs of eyes watching.

' _Get out of my sight!_ ' Professor Snape barked, and Mundy dropped Dee to the ground, the jar rolling under Draco's chair as she ran out the door - and that was the last of her they saw.

oOo

Later on, he threw the wretched mushroom into the dustbin, ignoring Blaise’s disapproving glances. When Theo began his usual bawling that night, Draco threw a pillow at him too, and told him to shut the fuck up.

Theo had been avoiding him since.

Blaise didn’t talk to him either for whatever reason he cooked up in his curious mind.

Draco had ignored Pansy, just because he could.

To summarise events since Lucretia Nott’s funeral, Draco’s life had reverted back to its usual state; antagonising Potter and bossing Crabbe and Goyle around.

For some unexplainable reason, neither of these brought him as much joy as they used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Any feedback much appreciated!


	4. Sad Tales from a Stork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concealed and unwanted pregnancy discussions in this chapter.

Lucretia Yaxley had been a foolish young girl.

Fresh out of Hogwarts, where she was a popular and successful pupil, she threw herself into work at the Improper Use of Magic Office with great expectations.

She had landed what she thought at a time to be a good position through her older brother, Corban, who was an ambitious young man himself, rising through the ranks with frightening speed.

However, no matter how much passion and enthusiasm Lucretia brought to her new workplace, unfortunately, bureaucracy gradually eroded and grounded all the willpower she had ever possessed.

Her dream job turned out to be a dead end; a glorified secretary to the Deputy Head of Misuse of Magic Office, with no near-future promotion possibilities. To make matter worse, the Deputy Head was a bitter old man in his early 60s, bald and harrowing, monocled and obnoxious, a stuck up old fart, to be quite honest.

A Tosspot with a capital T.

Lucretia was heartbroken. She was a popular girl in school; a "true English rose", Father used to call her, his chest puffed out, one hand stroking her blonde curls. She had an army of witches at hand at any given time, all of them holding onto their trivial grudges and deadly gossips, a hardy malicious gang of hags disguised as teenage girls, and she, the prettiest of them all, clawed her way successfully to the top!

And what thanks that brought her?

A shitty job under a shitty man in a shitty institution, twirling her perfectly manicured thumbs through this mindbogglingly boring Ministry life..

Another shitty week behind her, she was about to bunk off an hour early on Friday afternoon, when Cecile from Finance stopped her in her tracks, swatting her back in the office with a rolled up _Witch Weekly_.

'Ow!' Lucretia nursed her fatal paper cut just above her elbow. 'What do you want?!'

But Cecile had the best ideas.

Before she knew it, they were three Gillywater cocktails and four Lobe-Blaster shots deep in the Leaky Cauldron. Cecile kept twisting and twitching with laughter, snorting an olive down the wrong way, turning purple with coughing. Normally mortifying, Lucretia found this behaviour highly amusing instead, and cackled like a madwoman while she kept thumping Cecile's back.

Cecile spat her olive pit to an impressive distance across the hall, landing it in a drink of a tall, dark, brooding, handsome man with an audible _plop!._ She turned to profusely apologise, only for Lucretia to discover that in her lifesaving attempts, she smeared tartar sauce all over her friend's back. Her hysterical wheezing was understandable even more so, and she pushed the remains of her fish and chips out of reach. Tall, Dark, Brooding, Handsome Man joined them, ordering another round.

oOo

Dulling one’s senses became a necessity to survive a workweek.

Most nights, Lucretia and Cecile spent time discovering the pubs and bars Diagon Alley and Knockturn offered. Elegant lady-drinks in delicate crystal tumblers quickly melted into grimy shot glasses. They soldiered through headaches with sneaky swigs of flasks during morning meetings; the enticing purple smoke of mallowsweet soothing their frazzled nerves over lunch breaks; the sweet victory of a hit of powdered billywig pushing them through another night of celebrations.

What a life to live.

And there were men; many men in fact, although a certain one more often than not, their union first meaningless, then fiercely possessive; explosive; damaging.

Toxic.

Lucretia longed to relive every moment of it.

oOo

Good tidings never last.

The twelfth month of carefree living did take its tolls. Cecile disappeared more often than not with various excuses. A boyfriend of some sort, Lucretia was sure, but Cecile wouldn’t say, and so she no longer pressed for an answer. They weren’t friends like that.

She felt worse for wear too; slowing down might have been a better idea. Even when she didn’t drink, nausea would still greet her every morning, and even the mallowsweet wouldn’t always take the edge off. She lost her appetite, yet all her robes seemed to shrink. She felt frumpy and unwanted, even the usual courters evading her.

Whispers began.

Denial could only last so long, and on a rare Sunday family dinner, Mother took her aside. 

“Who is it? Your father will have him hexed into a marriage, don’t fret darling! Just say the name, Mummy will look after it.” 

Lucretia repeated over and over, _there’s_ _simply_ _no_ _point_ _Mummy_ , frantically tightening the _Hide_ - _This_ - _Bump_ corset around her expanding waist, but Mrs Yaxley wouldn’t let go of the topic, would not take no for an answer.

It broke her heart to watch her Mother’s world shatter, but she had to tell her.

 _Oh_ , _but_ _he’s_ _married already_ , _dear_   _old_ _Mummy_ _._

oOo

She sat on her bed, curtains open, looking out on the muggle woman opposite nursing her newborn baby, distinctively feeling more empty than ever. Emptier than the cot beside her.

Mr Tosspot sat beside her, perched on the edge of his visitors chair, as if scared that muggleness was contagious. 

Her first visitor in a week.

Lucretia couldn’t make eye contact. She wanted to ask: how did he know, how did he find her, what did he want?

Every glance in his direction, she wanted to scream _THIS_ _IS_ _LUDICROUS_.

A baby meant to bring happiness. She was meant to feel this magical connection, this unconditional love, to naturally find her way in motherhood.

She felt none of that. 

‘Lucy..’ He said, as if they knew each other well, as if they were friends. Lucretia hated him from the top of his glistening bald head down to the toes of his scruffy boots. ‘Lucy, I wish to help.’ 

‘How..?’ Her voice came out hoarse, and she realised, she hadn’t talked to anyone since the birth. She poured herself a glass of water from the jug on her bedside. Took a sip. Stalled for time.

Mr Tosspot watched her, unblinking, like a fascinating art piece he appreciated, but couldn’t possibly comprehend. 

‘How did you know?’ She asked at the end, and he smiled, a humourless smile not reaching his eyes. 

‘I was young once too, Lucy.’ 

‘I didn’t know you had children, Mr Nott.’ 

He finally looked away, his eyes following the midwife pushing in a weighting scale, the woman opposite undressing her baby.

He stayed silent for a long moment before he turned back to her. 

‘Have you ever wondered, how it was possible that my mother had a baby in her sixties?’ He said, leaning in, a near-whisper. ‘Did you ever find it strange, thirty-odd years between two siblings?’ 

‘I can’t say I have spent much thought on you or your family, Mr Nott.’ Her voice came out more chilling than usual, more distant. She didn’t want _him_ to comfort her. Why was he here? 

‘Where is the baby? Are you not keeping it?’ He inquired like it was any of his business, and for that alone, Lucretia desperately wished that she possessed the nerve to smack him. But instead of that, she found the answering words tumbling out of her mouth. 

‘She’s in special baby care. Something about a strange twitch. The midwife assured me it was perfectly fine, just a precautionary measure.’ She omitted that the midwife had said this over a week ago, and the baby still hadn’t returned since. She hadn’t gone up to see the child either. The midwives nudged her first gently, then more forcefully, but she only pretended to go, turning towards the hospital shop instead of the neonatal unit. It was easier to make up lies at the end.

‘You didn’t answer my other question.’ He kept prodding without a hint of shame. ‘I certainly hope you don’t wish to give your child away to.. to.. _these_ _people_?’ He looked at the muggle midwife taking the muggle baby from the muggle woman, his face twisted in the most evil and malicious way possible.

Lucretia couldn’t find it within herself to care. 

‘I don’t know. I can’t go back to our world with it, can I? An unmarried witch my status.. I would never live it down..’ 

‘What about your parents?’

Lucretia wanted to laugh. ‘Do you think they are talking to me? You are too naive for someone your age, Mr Nott.’ 

Mr Nott didn’t return her wry smile. 

‘My daughter.. she’s non-magical, but our sort still.’ He began, licking his lips nervously. ‘She’s a nurse, a children’s nurse, in Dublin. She could look after it, until you.. made up your mind?’ 

‘There’s nothing to make up my mind about. I don’t want it. Will she still take it anyway?’ 

‘I don’t think you should make a decision like that in your current mindset.’ He straightened up, leaning over to close the curtain slightly, giving them more privacy. ‘You are still young.. and a beautiful pureblood witch.. you might find an understanding husband..’ 

Lucretia tilted her head back, a bitter cackle escaping the depths of her throat. _Understanding_? _Husband_? Who was he kidding? 

‘You mustn’t jest, Mr Nott! Everyone knows. Who could possibly..? No one wants someone’s leftovers, never mind someone else’s offspring. Hell, I don’t even want _this_ offspring.’ 

‘You would be surprised.’ Mr Nott twisted the ring on his little finger; heavy gold, with the Nott’s crest. He looked tired; older in the fluorescent light.

‘Are you proposing?’ Lucretia never felt less desirable in her entire life; her tummy still flabby from nine months of stretching, her hair uncombed, no glamour, no everlasting lipstick, not even a brassiere - just a frilly housecoat hiding her stained nightdress, her traitorous breasts leaking every occasion an infant cried in the room. 

And yet, Mr Nott was sitting there, Mr Nott who never said a kind word to anyone in the office, Mr Nott who was an absolute stickler for rules, Mr Nott who timed their loo breaks, Mr Nott who was notoriously cruel and indifferent to the most heart wrenching personal emergencies, all-of-the-above Mr Nott was blushing furiously now, looking at his boots, so painfully obviously flustered. 

‘Look.. it’s not.. I don’t want to over step.. but if.. if you thought it best.. I would..’ He stuttered and stammered like a teenage boy stuck in an elderly man’s body, nearly endearingly aloof. ‘All I’m saying is.. I.. I would never try to control you, Lucy. If you want, I’d say the child is mine, we’ve been having an affair, etcetera. Whatever you wanted, I’d give it to you.’ 

Lucretia stared at him for a long time. So long, in fact, Mr Nott began to shift in his seat, muttering his apologies, gearing up to leave, squashing his top hat on his bald head, leaning on his walking stick to stand..

‘Can you get it up?’ The words rushed out of her mouth, unthinkingly. She could feel her own face heating now. 

‘E-excuse me?’ He turned to her once again, his eyes comically wide, his mouth hanging open. ‘I.. wha-? But.. I..’

He swallowed, the loose skin under his chin wobbling. 

‘I may be an old man, Lucy, but all my body parts are in excellent condition and functioning very well, thank you for the enquiry.’

Lucretia tightened the housecoat around her waist. 

‘What if I didn’t want this baby, but I wanted another?’ She looked up, unsure if it was wise to speak so openly. ‘Another.. and soon? What if I wanted this motherhood thing but.. but properly?’ 

Mr Nott sat down again, right beside her on the bed this time. His side pressed into hers, and he smelled old fashioned and musty; how old men smelled like usually. Lucretia didn’t make a move, and he didn’t touch her any further. 

‘Whatever you wanted.’ He whispered, settling to pat her hand at the end. ‘Just think on it.’

He got up then, and left without saying goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback is very welcomed!


	5. Lughnasadh

By the time Draco arrived home for summer holidays, Father’s face had been creased with more lines than ever before.

Gone were the days of leisurely walks around the grounds with him, gone the times they passed Quaffle to each other, gone the evenings when he would have graciously poured him a finger of fire whiskey, discussing politics (and mostly dissing other purebloods) for hours.

For the majority of the time now, Father was just gone. Worst of all, Mother had been stuck in a phase of permanent worrying.

Draco didn’t understand; this was not how it was supposed to go!

His whole childhood, he listened to his parents reminiscence of the “good old times”, and how “the right order needs to be restored”. And despite all the changes the Dark Lord brought with himself, the right order had not been restored in the Malfoy Manor. 

Quite the opposite. 

Father constantly absent, Mother constantly fretting, Draco constantly left to his own devices. He was left with nothing to be entertained with, apart from that spotty teenage elf they recruited in place of Dobby, and the occasional visits from Goyle and Crabbe.

It is dreadfully tiring, to be left alone with the thoughts of his own mind.

The everlasting tension affected Draco, and badly at that. Palpitations, sweating, nausea, insomnia - the list of his symptoms could have gone on forever. 

Yet every visit to the healers left them with the results of fruitless attempts at diagnostics, and an even fidgitier Mrs Malfoy.

Summer dragged on, a slow crawl through the sinistrous woods of panic and anxiety. Dark silhouettes flitted in and out of Malfoy Manor, ever-changing and constant-moving, Draco didn't recognise half the faces. After one particular gruesome run in with Fenrir Greyback, he wished he didn't know the other half either.

His birthday in June was a quiet event; with the majority of Slytherins on holidays, only a few people drifted by. 

The Notts came, and that was nice in a way that it never had been before. Theo had stopped bawling every night by the end of the school year, and he looked a bit better, a bit brighter than he did before. His dad had gotten him a fancy camera, one that spat out the photos straight away, with a loud bang and a barf of sparks. It had been a good laugh, goofing around with it, taking pictures of all of them making faces and playing Quidditch.

Maurice was quieter than usual. 

He had looked morose all afternoon, even when they all made an effort to include him, and only perked up once they cracked open the fire whiskey they'd stolen from Father's study.

Unsurprisingly, Mundy didn't come.

They said something about Grandmother Nott's house up North, something else about working in a pub, Draco tried not to listen. Not to care.

With Blaise away in Barcelona, Pansy had proved to be good company, and things were easier this way anyway, Draco thought to himself, as she pushed him up against the stone wall behind the Flutterby bushes.

He had felt alright for the first time in weeks.

oOo

Father had become irreparably miserable.

He'd taken up a new habit of pacing his study in circles, wearing away the top layer of the parquet, a polished ring forming in the middle of the room. He drunk more, swore more, snapped more. Always immaculately groomed, even this facade of Father began to slip; he'd often wear his housecoat still despite it being midday, his hair greasy and tousled as he pulled book after book down the shelves in the library. Once he lost the plot, and fired off a series of _Bombarda!_  all over the house. The elf was black and blue from his bad temper.

Mother had locked herself in the sun room.

The tension only escalated to the upcoming Lughnasadh celebrations, and it was unbearable to be inside the Manor. Why did they even celebrate this nonsense? No one would've given a rat's arse about this farce of a tradition the year prior, only the Dark Lord risen from the death, bringing the most useless notions with him from the afterlife.. Father said the whole thing stank of the Notts' scheming, yet, Draco wasn't so sure.

And only when summer began to be bearable.

As the weather had been brilliant, Draco ended up spending hours outside, grooming the peacocks, flying, setting dungbomb traps for unsuspecting muggle villagers. With the heatwave well on its way, the flowers were in full bloom, the trees heavy with their harvest - somehow, nothing seemed as desperate in the insistent sunshine.

The morning of the celebration went by a blur; decorations, chairs, the "right" amount of plates, Mother screaming, Father slamming doors, the thwack of a walking stick against an elf's backside.

The usual.

The Yaxleys arrived first, the apple of their eye in tow, His Preciousness to receive the Mark on this Merlinforsaken day. His parents gushed over him: the honour! The first since when!

Nauseating.

Draco had been used to Robert in school uniform. It was strange to see him so at ease in brocade robes, navy and sky-blue, colours of the Yaxleys, suddenly grown up and oh-so-different. He'd been polite, but strangely distant with Draco; as if they didn't sit beside each other every breakfast for years. 

This had left a bitter taste in Draco's mouth, to say the least.

He diverted his attention to the green flash of the Floo, its repetitive chime almost soothing. Mrs Goyle got stuck in the fireplace due to her large pannier, and it took three wizards to rescue her. It had given the perfect opportunity for Draco to escape. 

He ran down the zigzagging corridors of the East Wing, up the winding stairs, past the elf dusting Great-Great-Great-Grandfather Brutus' portrait ('Slow down, you clodpole!'), up another set of stairs, nearly breaking his neck on them, turning to the corner room, the door by the marble statue of Father's first Abraxan horse. She turned her head lazily at Draco's approach, before longingly looking out the window again, to the green pasture beside the forest, a faint neigh of devastating sadness.

Draco hadn't the time nor the energy to feel sorry for her today.

Knowing his tendency to retreat, Mother often hexed the door shut. Thankfully she must've forgotten to do so in the upheaval of this morning, and the door yielded without so much as a creak.

Ah, the welcoming embrace of safety.

Draco's room had been his sanctuary; it was a well organised chaos only he could navigate. Father had voiced his misgivings on a few occasions, but given up after a while - had bigger things to worry about, all things considered. 

It was a big room, a nice room, a nice room with a nice view; the peacocks, the Abraxan herd, Mother's flower gardens.

He jumped across the hedge built of discarded robes (courtesy of the impromptu fashion show his Mother demanded this morning), nearly slipping on _Madam Fawley's Etiquette Guide For The Modern Gentlewizard (_ 52nd edition), which he tore apart last Christmas in a fit of rage (Draco's father refusing to buy a Firebolt until the Slytherins "actually managed to win a cup"), and which loose pages were under his bed, next to the spilt vial of dried lacewing flies - where he _knew_ they were, so the system worked. 

In his jump, he hit his head off the wooden model replica of a Ukranian Ironbelly - even in miniature format, encompassing the entire breadth  of the ceiling. He cursed and rubbed the sore bump on his forehead, stepping over something slimy that might have been a piece of cauldron cake a few weeks ago, and glanced out to the gardens.

The Valerians only began to blossom in last week's sunshine, giving the illusion of freshly fallen snow in the scorching heat. A tall, slim figure stood at the edge of the field, running their fingers through the petals over and over, while the other hand.. The other hand was definitely clutching a cigarette of some sort, purple smoke drifting in the wind of the early evening.

Mother and father weren't the only ones battling with nerves today.

He'd only had a second to consider where he'd left his omniculars (possibly somewhere under the pile of clothes) when She caught him. His mother stood directly under his window, hands on hips, nose wrinkled, brows nearly one line in her severe frown.

Oh _-ooh._

_'Draco!!'_

It was probably too late to hide behind the curtains, but Draco tried anyway.

oOo

Draco had never been to a Lughnasadh celebration before, but so far, it fell in line perfectly with all the other boring galas his parents organised.

The Notts were last to arrive; Mr Nott, the boys, Mundy, and an old woman so wrinkled she resembled more a raisin than a person (Draco presumed this to be Grandmother Nott). Her clawed fingers digged forcefully into the soft skin just under Mundy's elbow, but she didn't seem to mind, in fact, she happily yelled down into Mrs Nott's ear trumpet.

'NANNY, I'M SO GLAD YOU CAME OUT WITH US.' The old hag took five minutes to step two steps, yet she still had to drag Mundy behind her. Mundy seemed to have comically slowed down, her eyes unfocused, sort of staring off distance, - except when inspecting the frills of the curtains with great care.

'YES, I'M DELIGHTED THEY WILL SERVE SPUDS.' Mrs Nott screamed back, her returning smile revealing a set of unnaturally white dentures.

Draco coughed to hide his embarrassment, and tried really hard not to stare. He'd never seen Mental Mundy like this; dressed up, made up, hair twisted in a loose knot, a row of dainty gold chains twining into one another, a most peculiar amulet hanging just over her throat.. Pink lips, loose gold shimmer carelessly scattered from temple to temple, stuck in her brows and long lashes - so effortlessly pretty, near ethereal in the receding sunlight.

'Good heavens,' Blaise knocked his shoulders to his, 'did she sneeze into a pot of fairy dust?'

Draco could hear Pansy's condescending chuckle from the other side of Blaise, and he'd grinned even wider. Draco tried and failed not to roll his eyes.

'I think she looks a bit alright.' He muttered, with the greatest attempts at looking bored.

'Does she now?' Blaise's right eyebrow arched in the smuggest of ways. 'Well, isn't that interesting.'

'I think she looks a bit like a bowtruckle draped in silk.' Greg piped in, as if anyone asked his fucking opinion, and Draco could feel the blood drumming in his ears.

'Ha-ha.' He forced out while Blaise and Pansy laughed themselves silly.

The Notts lined up just beside their group, Mrs Nott shoulder-deep in her tiny handbag, which emitted a suspicious _meow._

'NANNY, TELL ME YOU DIDN'T BRING MISTER TINKLES WITH YOU.' Mundy seemed to regain clarity momentarily, drawing her wand to summon a chair for Mrs Nott.

'HE'S GOT SEPARATION ANXIETY, IS WHAT THE CREATURE HEALER SAID TO ME.' The meow changed into hissing, and Mrs Nott hastily retracted her hand. 'CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS DRAGONDUNG OF DIAGNOSTICS FOR THE PRICE OF THIRTEEN GALLEONS? BACK IN MY DAY...'

But Draco couldn't hear what happened back in her day, thanks to the fresh wave of ear piercing cackle from everyone around him. 

'Mi-h-hister Th-thin-kles!' Pansy was clutching her stomach, wiping tears away. Mr Nott disappeared early on in the conversation, but both Theo's and Ricey's faces were flaming red. If anything, Mundy appeared mildly amused, but Draco noticed that she carefully avoided looking in their direction. Mrs Nott didn't seem bothered the slightest.

'WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR ANYWAY?' The chair summoned was one of the old set of the Malfoy's; sturdy oak, lumpy seat, strictly non-comfort.

'OH YOU KNOW, THIS THING HERE.' Mrs Nott sat down with great difficulty, one hand clutching her ear trumpet, the other a vial of grey-blue potion, a bottled up storm at sea. 'I WANT TO BLESS YOU BEFORE THEY SELECT.'

'NANNY, YOU KNOW THEY WON'T CHOOSE ME, THEY CHOSE ROBERT ALREADY.'

'THAT'S RUBBISH, BOB MERCURY IS NOT WORTH HALF A NIFFLER'S FART.' She wiggled around a bit, trying to get comfort out of the non-comfort chair, before she uncorked the vial and dipped a long nail into it. 'NOW COME HERE, BEFORE THIS SLIME DRIES ON ME.'

'NANNY, NO, I'M QUITE ALRIGHT.' Mundy hastily shoved the cork back into the lip of the vial, and as she leaned over her, Grandmother Nott used the opportunity to smear a poor excuse of a seven pointed star on the middle of her forehead.

It would’ve been an understatement to say the least that it was not neat work.

‘NANNY!! MY FACE!!’ 

Two steady streams of black mascara ran down Pansy’s cheeks, head tilted back, full belly laughs rolling out of her-

‘OH MERLIN PLease, I’m going to WET MYSELF!!’ She shrieked at the same time as Blaise hollered over ‘Don’t fret, love, it’s only been an improvement so far!!’ across the room.

This last sentence finally registered with Mrs Nott, whose ominous turn of gaze had been an obvious result of practice mastered over a long stretch of time. Her tiny figure inexplicably towered above them, despite her sitting down, her walking stick rising and coming down on Blaise's open-toed left sandal with a loud _thwack_. 

'OH, DEARIE, THERE'S NO SHAME IN IT!' She screamed inches away from Pansy's face, as he doubled over in pain. 'I HEAR THERE ARE GREAT SPELLS FOR INCONTINENCY ISSUES NOWADAYS, IF IT'S SUCH A RECURRENT PROBLEM FOR YOU!!' 

Draco allowed himself a small smirk, and instinctively looked for Mundy's reaction; but she wasn't laughing. A brow slightly raised above the other, a blue-grey drop curving around the arch falling down her temple, mouth hanging open, with the look of utter confusion, she stared back.  
  
It was then when the double doors were kicked wide-open, the army of rented elves flooding the room, escorting happily obliging guests to their dinner plates.

oOo

'What are you on?'

Draco sat with his back to the Notts table, a table seating six but occupying only five. 

Who had agreed on this arrangement? Draco had sullenly asked himself again and again, watching as his mother performed her very fake and very forced public laugh over and over.

'D'nno. Mayb' six? Wh'?'

Draco so desperately wanted to turn around, maybe even just to shift his chair just a teeny bit closer..

'Nan said that you would need more. She gave me her flask and everything.'

Maybe if he pretended to scratch his ear, twist his neck to look out the window?

'This is nearly f'ckin' emp-ty.'

'Well what do you want, Ricey got to it earlier than you.'

Abort, abort, abort!!!! Full on eye contact with Theo, as Mundy scrunched up her face and necked back the remainder of the flask, the stain of the blue holy water still on her forehead.

Draco morosely decided to stare straight on instead, observing Mr Crabbe stabbing his already detracted gums with a toothpick in a most uncomfortable fashion.

'Well?'

'Is this Poitin?? Ugh, I think I'm g'nna barf.'

'Of course it is, it came from nanny's handbag, what did you think, gobshite? You are not gonna barf.'

Draco could not help it. He vaguely stared up the ceiling, and then slowly rotated his head just a smidgen to the right..

_Clink-clink-clink._

The commotion behind him had sideblinded Draco substantially, to the extent of not noticing his own father rising to his feet right beside him, knocking the silverware forcefully against the crystal of his tumbler. 

'Before our special guest arrives..' His voice boomed over the vast room, 'Let me introduce young Master Yaxley, and his beautiful dance partner, who now will open the floor for us.'

And then he took a deep swig of the remaining contents of his glass, carefully avoiding eye-contact with everyone else.

This hadn't made sense either, Draco thought, as he moved from the table so it could float to the side of the room. 

Mother and Father had opened every single occasion they had hosted at the Manor.

Young Robert Yaxley did not seem to mind, as without hesitation he grabbed Euphemia's hand in a death grip to lead her to the middle of the room, his knuckles white with the effort. Euphemia's face didn't betray her discomfort anyhow, and she depicted the picture of effortless elegance and indifference in a room filled with the noises of screeching chairs and grumbling attendees.

'I'm defin'tely goin' t' barf.'

'Aim for somewhere not on me, then.'

As the first notes of the goblin orchestra started up, Euphemia's hair seemed to come to life on its own accord; her long blonde hair swinging to the rhythm in a gravity defying manner, and the two of them were dancing in perfect unison, not a wrong step in sight..

Mundy had collapsed on the nearest chair in the exact opposite manner, producing a cigarette from the inner folds of her intricate robe, lighting it up off the nearest candle.

Now nothing impeding Draco's vision, he could report with full certainty, that Mundy was, want for a better phrase, drunk as a fiddler.

'Remin' me wh' t' fuck I'mma doin' this for toni't,' she asked, as she sucked on her cigarette, the end, blazing red in the darkened room, lighting up her pixy features.

In the background, the steps of Robert and Euphemia sped on and on, their expensive shoes a blur in their swift movement.

'Something about Lughnasadh, the alignment of the moons, saving Robert from himself?'

'Aye, sure lo'k, Bob's a fuckin' eejit,' she replied, her face hid behind a cloud of white smoke, the smell of menthol overpowering the air near them to the extent of making Draco's eyes water. 'How d' you save someon' from the'selv, anyhow?'

'I don't fucking now.' Theo replied, his eyes not leaving Maurice, his brother fast asleep on their grandmother's shoulder.

Mundy took another drag, not following his gaze.

'Fuck me,' she said, 'this is gonn' be a lon' fuckin' night.'

oOo

That's the way she stayed the rest of the evening, cigarette after cigarette, drink after drink, until she couldn't make a sentence straight.

Draco watched and watched, an inexplicable sadness settling over his chest.

Women weren't meant to act this way. Mother had never been this way, certainly, Draco could pledge to that, as he watched his mother sip on the same glass of wine she started her dinner with over three hours ago.

Certainly, she never needed two men to hold her upright when the Dark Lord made his rounds.

'And now, to our Lughnasadh tradition of bonfire, before the main event!'

The majority of guests rushed out to the gardens, most by their free will and own two feet, some by the help of others, and with a good bit of dragging involved. 

Draco tried not to look, but it was difficult to look away from disaster.

Grandmother Nott seemed more in her element the more the night progressed; throwing her walking stick over her shoulder, she solidly wedged a hand under Mundy's armpit, dragging her on, on a speed unjustified by her age and earlier demeanour. She dropped Mundy on the grass, a mere metre away from the stack of wood and paper. Both of Mundy's shoes were missing, white, bony feet stark against the dark grass.

Grandmother Nott did not waste time; spell after spell, the tower of the bonfire slowly began to ignite, first smoking heavily, then blazing blue, yellow, red, green, even purple. 

Flashing.

She'd began a chant, high pitched and nasal, on a language Draco could not understand, but regardless, found rather intimidating.

'Funny that.' Draco overheard Mrs Travers confide in Mr Travers. 'This is not how I remembered it at all.'

Mrs Nott screamed into the sky, and that's when, in the flashing of ever-changing light, Mundy began to seize.

The Dark Lord had stood slightly away from them, halfway down the nearby hill, looking down, his face showing no sympathy or fear, a lone figure of the night.

Draco swallowed, and dug his hands deeper in his robe's pocket.

 _Must.not.fret._ , he thought to himself firmly, and avoided looking at his parents' blank faces.

And Mundy continued to twitch and tremble, as her grandmother zigzagged around her in lightening speed, chanting, waving around her smoking wand. Her eyes turned in their socket, teeth biting into her lower lip, nose bleeding.

Blue holy water and fresh blood mixing.

Mundy had began a transformation unlike others; her feet turning into hooves, legs turning much like the legs  of deer, no, perhaps, actually, maybe of a horse? And amongst the curls of her dark hair, a horn of some sort, something alike of..

Of a wild goat.

And with the transformation, howling quickly followed by.

So obviously in pain! A heart-wrenching cry, sobbing, screeching, a banshee's soulless scream, in pain, she was in so much pain..

Without thinking, Draco had stepped forward, only to be stopped by his mother's iron grasp. When he looked up, pleading, she firmly shook her head.

No one did a thing.

When the screaming finally subsided, into quiet little sniffs, and then, scarily, nothing at all, and Mundy scrambled to her feet (hooves).

Except what remained was not resembling Mundy much at all.

The Dark Lord stepped forward, a wide grin spreading on his face ear to ear, lacking all sort of warmth, yet remaining gleefully triumphant.

'What can you do?' He asked, in the utter silence, even the nearest village probably hearing his booming voice.

' **Whatever you want, I suppose.** ' She'd said, and even her voice wasn't hers anymore; deeper, yet chillier, almost not from this world. She looked ahead, over people's head, not looking at anyone particularly. Grandmother Nott conveniently melted into the background, bowed impossibly low for someone in her early hundreds.

'Could you do the whole lot?' The Dark Lord gestured towards the crowd, an icy chill running down Draco's spine. _The whole lot..?_

Mundy swallowed, and then nodded. The Dark Lord questioningly tilted his head, his palm up, inviting her to action.

 _What is she going to do..?_ The discomfort growing in the pit of Draco's stomach did not enjoy this set up at all; in fact, so much so, that he didn't even realise his right hand worked his way to his brows once again.

And then the music started.

Slow first, a lone tune of a violin, and then the rest following, the harsh goblin music turning sweeter, more melodic, dictating the rhythm of Draco's racing heart.

He looked up again to his mother, for reassurance, or anything really, but he only met with fear there too, her sharp nails digging deeper into Draco's shoulder.

And then.. the unbearable desire, unlike anything Draco had ever felt before, hit him straight in the gut. Not like the _Imperius_ experienced in Mad Eye's DA classes, nothing like it, not an entity that could be fought or captured in anyway; this feeling, this inexplicable phenomenon came from within Draco, it was part of Draco, the absolute necessity to do this thing, to dance to the beat of this music, to follow it, to become one with it! And as he looked around, others had began to stir and swing side by side, some even going as far as breaking into an outright dance, and Draco understood these people completely, because the centre of his very being told him, this was the thing to do, the only thing that made sense, the only thing that could exist in his mind, and he grabbed his mother's hand and twisted, Narcissa Malfoy performing a twirl of a lifetime, Mrs Travers performing the perfect pirouette beside them, Mr Goyle breaking into a rapid czardas..

And just as it came, it went, a spell broken, a rude awakening of reality, confused guests holding onto one another, and Mundy was kneeling down, thankfully, in human form once again, panting, sweating, blue mixed with red mixed with gold, and yet, behind the mess, determined and oh-so-fierce.

And the Dark Lord, never sparing a glance at young Robert Yaxley, drew his wand, bent down, and grabbed Mundy's left arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Any feedback much appreciated!


	6. Greenhouse 6

Draco stood on platform 9 and 3/4, truly appreciating the beauty of Hogwarts Express for the very first time.

What a dreadful summer had it been.

As the first of September approached, Mother had begun to warm up to him again; going as far as squeezing his hand, her brows knitting in worry as he turned to board the train.

Of course, Father had been far too busy to attend.

'Write to me!' She shouted after him, as if he hadn't written a letter nearly every single day for the past four school years.

He turned to give her a reassuring smile, and caught a glimpse of Rosamund Nott, leaning against a lamp post, fag hanging from her mouth, reading the back of a fresh edition of the _Daily Prophet_. She had looked well - better than usual really. She was sporting a new, shorter haircut, and was already wearing her school uniform: white shirt buttoned up the right way for once, her trousers still just a smidgen too short, a pair of freshly shined brogues on her feet.

There were no sausage dogs or flowery handkerchiefs or inconvenient squib mothers to remind Draco of his better judgement - just Mundy, looking like she always did, ordinary and plain, except, somehow, attracting Draco's gaze all the same.

Mother had turned to see what he was looking at, and then turned back around quick with a questioning tilt of her eyebrow. As such, Draco determined a swift departure necessary, and thankfully, she hadn't the time to press on him further.

He'd marched all the way to the first cabin to sit with the other prefects, pushing a nagging feeling away from his mind.

oOo

The rumours quickly spread of the events occurred during Lughnasadh, and inevitably, escalated into fantastical stories.

'..I heard she turned everyone into bats..'

'..no silly, it was stones..'

'..I heard she herself turned into a big serpent..'

'..Yeah, and she spat acidic venom into the guests' faces!!

Draco had pushed a couple of third years aside to pave way for himself on the busy corridor of the second floor.

'Don't be ridiculous.' The only intelligent one in the group said, her sweet voice rising above them all. 'She bears the amulet of Baphomet.'

'And what does that mean?' A rather unbecoming Hufflepuff retorted, but Astoria Greengrass took her time to react,  smoothed her blonde hair back behind her smart green headband. 

'It means she's not a demon of serpent-turning, Eliphas.' She answered, rather more patiently than Draco could have ever mustered. 

He rewarded her with the gentlest of shoves as he passed her by.

oOo

These rumours, although often unfounded and downright dumb, did result in, essentially, vanishing Mundy from the Hogwarts scene.

This had upset Draco to a much larger scale than he would have liked to admit.

For his bottled up anger he needed an outlet, and outlet he found without much trouble; let it be unsuspecting snotty first years, Potter and his entourage, or even Pansy.

The latter had been definitely less than impressed.

By the grace of gods, however, the one uplifting sunshine in the dreary autumn months was brought on by no other, but Ron Weasley, and chiefly, his hilarious Quidditch prowess (or more so, the lack of, ha!). The teasing, the mocking, the songs, it poured out of Draco quite effortlessly (and rather effectively, judging by Weasel's flustered reaction).

As November, and the first Slytherins versus Gryffindor match approached them, Draco couldn't help but grow further at unease. The same went for the rest of the team, and their new captain, Montague, who was eager to please; in the upcoming weeks, they had tripled their practice sessions, but even so, even Draco had to admit, the team was far from without needing polish.

The others had felt the pressure too, and Draco had overheard Bletchley and Warrington discuss the illegal mallowsweet plantation Mundy had supposedly nursed in the abandoned Greenhouse 6.

'She's mental for a reason, right?' Bletchley laughed, and tugged his t-shirt over his head, seemingly completely unashamed of his cock and balls on full display.

Draco tightened his towel with great discomfort around his waist.

'What she's selling it for?' Warrington didn't bat an eye either about his colleague's semi-nakedness, and continued on with their conversation accordingly.

'A galleon a gram! Bargain.'

'Bargain.' Warrington conceded, and towelled his hair dry.

However, Draco hadn't liked the sound of that at all.

He'd confided as much to Montague, who, as his captain and senior-prefect, seemed the optimal choice. Montague took his worries on board with appropriate concern, and at the same time, knew it to be inadvisable to cause annoyance to a fellow Slytherin. As such, a plan was devised to visit Mundy the next day, in order to discuss their concerns with her.

oOo

Greenhouse 6 had been a project of Professor Sprout, who a couple of years ago attempted to grow the largest herd of venomous tentacula in the history of Great Britain, only to find she'd bit off more pumpkin pastry than she could chew. 

The venomous tentacula left to its own device quickly spread all over, the leafy tentacles growing out at every crook and cranny, sealing the doors shut. A few broken, dusty signs halfheartedly warned against danger, but as the greenhouse was rendered impenetrable, no one bothered to replace these.

'Are you sure she's in here?' Montague looked at him with an arched eyebrow, doubt staining his voice. Indeed, the greenhouse looked derelict; unsuspicious, apart from the two bright yellow shrubs at the entrance, their sweet scent heavy in the air; mixing with, masking, another characteristic smell.

Mundy's clear mark of territory.

'It is what the others had said.' Draco gulped, shrugged, feigned disinterest, and then gulped again.

A cete of Hufflepuffs passed them by, atypically dejected, wordlessly marching towards Greenhouse 5. Montague looked at the back of them as they receded from their line of vision, until one of them eventually turned back and shouted "Is this your first day on Earth?! Just knock, for fuck's sake!"

'The Puffs have surely changed a lot since last year.' Montague commented under his breath, forcefully banging on the jet-black glass of the door.

Draco, rendered momentarily speechlessly, managed a stilted nod.

For a long moment, nothing happened at all, and Draco let go of the breath he hadn't realise he'd been holding onto. Montague let out a huff of a laugh, as if disbelieving his own silly tension, visibly relaxing, his shoulders dropping.

His laugh caught on the back of his throat when, the largest and veiniest looking tentacle shook its purpling leaves off, and another, marginally smaller one joined it through the bottom of a broken windows; the two of them twisting, crackling, opening the door with an ominous creak.

Inside had been, unsurprisingly, pitch black, the heat of the place pouring out in the cool chill of November.

'After you.' Draco managed to grit out, and in fairness to Montague, he lifted a leg after the other, more bravely than Draco behind him followed.

Greenhouse 6 had been long and narrow; the very back of it turning off in the shape of an L, a broken glass plane of the roof the only source of light. Where the light reached, the malevolent plant failed to do so; instead the space was occupied by neat rows of wooden baskets, the stalks of deep green vivid against the blackness of its surroundings.

This is how they found Mental Mundy, kneeling amongst them, a ray of sunlight trickling down her face, shining through her glowing lashes, her freckled nose, her pink lips.

Draco had tripped over a loose vine (definitely not his own two feet), and that's when she looked up.

'Ah.' Her lips curled downwards and upwards at the same time, fighting the smile, her dark eyes sparkling maliciously, laughing at him, mocking him.

'M-mundy.' Montague began, his voice barely trembling (a credit to him).

'Well, if this isn't a surprise.' She did not, in fact, appear surprised at all. She was covered in dirt to her elbows; repotting the mallowsweet, her school shirt rolled up to mid upper arm. The inky thick lines of the Dark Mark on show; unhidden, unashamed.

The other arm, her right, just above the crook of the elbow, the edges of a tattoo, thin and fragile, a sketch of a flower. A deformed bluebell-shaped plant.

She bent her head down again, short strands of hair falling away from her ponytail.

'Well,' she continued not looking up, 'what d'you want then?'

The tentacles above their heads twitched and moved, accompanied by a disgusting, slimy sound.

Montague sat down on an upturned bucket, and Draco stayed close, standing. Not wanting to touch anything. Afraid to make the wrong move. 

'I thought,' Montague had begun, wiping his brows, pausing, thinking, 'I thought, maybe we should talk.'

'Talk then.' She'd stabbed the ground with a trowel, rather aggressively. 'Did you rat me out to Snape already?'

'What! No!' Montague hastily stood, the bucket rolling aside, a vine annoyedly swiping at his feet. 'What do you take me for!'

'Just to be clear,' She'd stabbed the trowel down again, 'You are a dickhead, Montague, and your friend here,' Stab, stab, stab, 'Malfoy, would sell his own granny for a few house points and a pat on the head.'

Draco made a sound of indignation.

'Oh, shut up.' She finally threw the trowel down, wiping her hands onto a cloth, transferring the dirt, but failing to lessen it on her hands. 'You are the biggest nark on these school grounds, and you know it.'

'Fuck off.' The words rushed out of his mouth, unbidden, but never truer.

Mundy laughed.

'What do you want then? Hardly to buy the 'sweet off me, surely? Yous are too big of a nerds.'

'The! Team! Buying off you! They shouldn't!' The words continued to tumble out  of Draco unbidden, leaving him flustered and flaming red, the sweat curling his hair at his nape.

The embarrassment! The shame! Merlin, help!

'Oh,' She stood, knees and brogues smudged with patches of soil. She'd reached behind her ear, producing a slim, white cigarette, 'What's it to you what others do in their free time?'

'It's just not sportsmen like!' Montague exclaimed heatedly, finally coming to Draco's aid.

Silence, stretched long, until Mundy snapped her fingers, the end of her joint lighting up.

'You wouldn't know what was sportsmen-like if it smacked you in the face, Graham.' She added at the end, inhaling deeply, purple smoke pouring out her nostrils, reminding Draco of a dragon.

A rather pissed off, dangerous dragon.

'Is this because I wouldn't allow you on the team?' Montague said at the end, whispered nearly, in the quiet space.

Mundy laughed again.

'You know I couldn't! No matter how good you are on a broom! With your condition, flying is strictly prohibited- I, I know this, because Theo strictly warned me against..'

'Oh, piss off,' Mundy's laugh turning mean, a cackle, 'I wouldn't play that cunty English game if it was the last entertainment available on Earth.'

Draco caught his reflection on the painted glass of the greenhouse; blotchy, with two spots of red high on his cheeks, embarrassed and irritated, he still hadn't compared to the tomato-red face of Montague.

'You have always been a right piece of work!!' He roared, 'I will write to Mr Nott!' 

'Please, include my best wishes.' She chuckled, flicked the ash, and chuckled again. Montague turned on his heels, and sprinted out, cursing as he went.

'Well.' She said, as to close conversation, turning her back to Draco, throwing the cloth over her shoulder, stepping to the tap.

Draco watched her reach for a slab of soap, white foam covering her hand, the sound of a brush scrubbing, the fag perched at the edge of her mouth, artfully balancing.

'Why are you like this?' He didn't mean to speak, surprised by his own rage, his voice came out hurried, but demanding; authoritative.

She didn't reply for a long second, and for that moment, Draco thought perhaps she hadn't heard him over the sound of the rushing water. 

'I don't fucking know.' She said, drying her hands. Turning around, leaning against the wet lip of the sink. Flicking ash off again.

Looking sad, looking defeated.

And he was familiar with _this_ feeling, wasn't he? Saying the wrong thing, letting his anger get the better of him, letting the words lash out; to hurt, to burn, to leave a mark.

 _To leave a mark_ , he thought again, looking down on Mundy's left arm.

 _"You are only obsessed with her so much because she doesn't care for you at all - come on Draco, you do this all the time_ ", Pansy had said many moons ago, and she was wrong, because this was different, so different, because they actually moved forward since, and then built a strange kinship, haven't they? But then they haven't talked in months, and Mundy isolated herself, and was constantly getting in trouble, and..

He reached out, 'Give me that,' his voice flat. Mundy hadn't argued, turned it over, her eyes sad, shining. He stood beside her, their shoulders and elbows pressed together, her warmth spreading to him, leaving pins and needles behind. He ignored the cold metal of the sink digging into the small of his back. Turned the stub around. Took a mouthful of sour smoke.

Nearly died of coughing.

'What are you doing?!' Mundy shrieked through a giggle, a tingling sound, an honest half-smile breaking into a grin, a display of a gentle gap between her front teeth, a sweet crinkle at the corners of her dark eyes.

Draco swearing to himself to choke down as much smoke as he could survive, only to make her smile like that again.

'Good heavens, put that out before you hurt yourself.' She kept smiling, leaning over him, taking the burning end and throwing it to the ground. Staying close, close enough to not allow Draco's lungs to fill on clear air, but the dizzying lilac haze; enveloping him, keeping him, drawing him in. 

Whether it was this, or perhaps the buzz of mallowsweet, we will never know - but it had fired on his bravery enough to lean in and kiss her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Any feedback much appreciated!


	7. Whatever

It had lasted only a split second; a length of a shallow breath; the short time it took a drop from the tap to hit the bottom of the sink.

She had pulled away, but not entirely, as if unsure, staying close, the puff of air warming Draco’s cheek; forehead resting against forehead, time rushing by rapidly. A disbelieving chuckle.

He had moved to kiss again, but only brushed his nose against Mundy’s when she pulled back; moved away. The rejection hit Draco sharply somewhere behind his sternum, a loud _thud_ , spreading, evolving into something cold; like ice water running through his veins, breaking him out in goosebumps in the hot greenhouse, churning his stomach, turning his heart. Turning it cold, and nasty. Angry. 

‘What?’ He’d sneered, stepping away, looking away. Even the sight of Mundy had enraged him, and he desperately wished he hadn’t come, that he stayed behind. 

‘This.. I’m not.. I’m flattered, truly, but..’ She had hurriedly dragged her sleeves down, reaching for her school bag, her fingernails still black from the soil, and Draco was disgusted that not a moment ago he yearned for those hands, those disgusting, unkept hands. He’d made a jerky motion, something between a shrug and a nod, and deep inside, he knew he was being unreasonable, yet he hadn’t a notion how to hold his temper back, how to not lash out, hurt back, hurt back the way he’d been hurt just there, a mere minute before, by her, by her stupid rejection. 

‘Whatever.’ He struggled the word out at the end, and shrugged once more, turning, not looking, not seeing, stumbling again on his way out, the heavy door slamming behind him, the eerie crunch of a branch ringing in his ear.

Why had he come? What did he do that for?

oOo

The way back from the greenhouse was a blur; outside then inside, stone walls, ivy running down, a torch light, the green shadow of the common room, Pansy asking if he was alright, well he wasn’t alright, was he? Theo opening his mouth but not finishing the sentence, maybe he did, maybe Draco just hadn’t listened, who knows, who knows?

He’d ran to his bed, curtains closed, the safety of the dark enveloping him, protecting him - not protecting him from his own mind though, his racing heart, the prickly feeling of cold sweat under his arms, the loud rush of blood in his ears.

It had been a long night, that first one.

oOo

Draco hadn’t taken rejection well; not before, and not this time either.

Just look at the example of Harry Potter.

He was determined not to pay any attention to Mundy; to strictly bar her from the palace of his mind.

It hadn’t been easy.

All of a sudden, Draco was bumping into her at every corner; the Great Hall, the library, even the stairs of the boy’s dormitory - she was there, always looking at the ground, not making eye contact, pale and silent. Unlike Draco, who seemed to have gone tomato red, like a bad sunburn, a babbling mess, embarrassed to his core by each and every encounter, his eyes permanently lingering, looking looking looking, searching in the crowd.

It had been so bad, even Greg noticed; he’d placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, asked if he was alright. 

Draco had snapped and told him to fuck off.

He hadn’t asked after that.

oOo

Greenhouse 6 was always full.

Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor - it didn’t matter. Ties of every colour of the rainbow were hung along the vines of the venomous tentacula, older students leaning against the glass walls, laughing, shouting, flirting, teasing. Little canvas pouches, the sound of galleons in one’s pocket, the nauseating smell of coconut.

Draco had hated it; sped up every time he passed by to walk to Herbology class, eyes trained on the worn grass, frost settling between the strands.

Until one day.

One late November morning, when Draco noticed Montague lingering outside the greenhouse, leaning against the stone fence; but he hadn’t been alone. Sitting there, nestled into his side, protected from the cold chill of the air was Rosamund Nott, their fingers laced, his hairy darker ones covering her slim white little hands.

Later that evening, after the calming potion, Madam Pomfrey taught him how to spell faux eyebrows on.

If you didn’t know any better, they almost looked believable.

oOo

She’d been Draco’s first heartbreak.

He hadn’t known at the time that the pain was temporary; that the chills running up and down his spine would stop eventually; the heart wrenching disappointment would lessen in the healing balm of time. 

He thought he would die from it, thought it would digest him alive. That’s how it felt the first couple of days; like he was drenched in acid, burning up, melting away, his common sense disappearing.

He wished he was disappearing.

This temporary insanity could’ve been the only reason why he’d done what he’d done. It wasn’t his fault really! 

Professor Umbridge, who he found to be an agreeable, and finally, a competent member of staff, had called him in her office one evening. He’d ignored the shiver the porcelain kittens gave him, and sat down on a pink pouffe. Took the tea that was offered.

Let the words tumble out of his mouth. 

She came more alive the more he talked; took notes even, kept murmuring “very good” and “we can use this against Dumbledore, hmm, yes, yes”. It was all the encouragement Draco needed. 

He had hoped they would punish Mundy, put her in detention; maybe if she was too busy to see Montague, maybe they would realise how truly incompatible of a couple they were?

What Draco hadn’t expected was that the very next day, Mundy had packed her bags, and left.

She was under Ministry ordered suspension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Any feedback much appreciated!


	8. Mundy

_Dear Fartface,_

_Long time, no writing - is everything alright up at good old Hoggy-warts? To the good name of Merlin, I hope_ _you are behaving! If not for yourself, for Uncle Or's sake, the poor bugger has been through.._

'Al'rite luv,' A stout witch covered head to toe in mourning veil rasped in deep baritone, 'be a dolly an' pour us 'nother one, will ye?' She said as she clinked a long dirty claw to the smudged glass of her snifter, her fingers dusted by copious amounts of long black hairs.

'Aye, no bodge.' Mundy hastily hid the letter under the till, and turned to serve the lady. 'Are you not cooking under that?'

'My grief cannot be halted by a little mid-May heatwave.' She said haughtily, and made a production of awkwardly drinking her brandy under the thick, black lace. 'On a completely unrelated note, where's the own’r of this fine establishment toni'te?'

'It's the first Thursday of the month.'

'Does that meant to tell me sum'thin'?'

'He's at the SGF's meeting.'

'SGF?'

'Scottish Goatkeepers' Federation.' Mundy said diligently, and wiped the counter with a green-grey cloth, only making it stickier. 'You know, for a spy, you are pretty unobservant.'

'Ah no-no,' the widow said, cursing under her breath just as she spilt her drink, 'I'm just a lon'ly woman, looking for a gentleman friend. A long time admi'er, if ye will.'

'Sure, sure. You alright there?'

There had been an unevenly matched fight between the lady and her veil, a scuffle that ended in a tangle and the sound of ripping lace.

She stayed quiet for a moment, and then said:

'Where's this bleedin' meetin' at?'

'Tarbolton. He won't be back till tomorrow.' 

'Ah, thank the Merlin.' She said, and pulled her veil back.

'Well, well, well.' Mundy leaned over the bar, drinking in the sight in front of her. 'What a beautiful woman you are, Madam.'

'Oh, shut it.' Replied the scruffy, ugly, bald man. 'And give us a bleedin' ale will ye.' 

'No wonder you were so shy!' She laughed, and the man grumbled something about the youth today, as he moved away to sit by the fire.

Mundy picked up her letter again.

_How are your NEWT studies going? I know you only took Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures, so you mustn't be too busy to write to your favourite handsome fantastic genius of a cousin! You will be glad to know I am having the time of my life in Paris, studying the "thransfigurasioon"  à la Sorbonne. Don't tell this to Fifi, but les femmes here are just something else, I have never seen such magnifique..._

'To the good name of Jesus, what is that smell??'

'What does a man hafta do for a bitta peace? Cannae enjoy a bleedin' drink and smoke without some y'ung one screamin'...'

'Pal, I've got nothing against a bit of smoking, my issue is that it smells like burning dirty socks! And why on earth is the smoke _green_? It's vile, take it outside.'

'I will not.' The man replied, and spitefully blew another cloud of green towards the ceiling. 'Whatcha gonna do 'bout it? Big boss out of town till tomo', ye said so yerself..'

'Ugh.' She replied with great witticism, and tried to distract herself with her letter again.

_Anyway, that's really all I can report back about me. It's a real bummer about the "internship position" in England that fell through; I am really snubbed you got there before me. But rest assured, my tears fall on lovely French bosoms, and I have begrudgingly moved on._

'Hey, if you're finished there wit' yer love letter, will you pour 'nother to yer only customer, luvy?'

 _I graciously forgive you for all your wrong doings. I recently received a troubling letter from brother Roy, where he had written that he_   _hadn't seen you around the castle for a while. I am going to put this down to you being all loved up with Graham, and Roy being a mindless little git. I bloody hope you did not up and leave formal education after all the trouble we went to exchange your soul for a healthy mind..._

'I'm jus' sayin', if the pint is not front of me in a minute, legally it's a free one, it is written in our wizardin' constitution, I am tellin' ye..'

 _Write to me, you_   _bint!_  
  
_Love,_

_Robert_

'Ye know what, Madam Rosmerta runs an overpriced establishmen', but at least she graces her customers wit' actually servin' them.' The bald man said, and angrily yanked his veil back down before he dramatically marched to the door.

'Wh' won't this bleeding' thin' open?!' He roared, slapping the wood of the it angrily.

'It won't let you out unless you pay your tab.' Mundy shrugged, and slipped Bob's letter back under the till.

'That's a joke ri'te?? Ha-ha, jesting barmaid, I will not pay ye a knut for that atrocious behaviour..'

'I guess we can settle into each other's loving company for the rest of the evening then. Or you know, you could pay the four galleons thirteen sickles ye owe.'

'FOUR GALLEONS THIRTEEN SICKLES? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND??'

'Sir, you had four brandies and two pints of Banshee's Finest Ale..'

'I've got no four galleons and thirteen bleedin' sickles on me, ye bleedin' wench! An absolute robbery this place has become!'

'I guess you can wait for Abe to show up tomorrow, and he might lend you an understanding ear..'

He started visibly shaking at that.

'Oh no, no, I would not like to trouble Abe now at all.. Surely, we can come to a' nagreement between just the two o' us, good, honest woman like you are, surely, you can understand..'

Mundy picked up the man's pint glass and dunked into the hot, soapy water, lost in thought.

'It's like.. you are afraid of Abe?' 

'Oh, no, no, it's just a great humbling admiration I have to'wards him, an' as you said before, I am a tad shy, he is such a strappin', imposin', grande gentleman..'

'Are we talking about the same Aberforth? That dirty, old hippy, covered in goat muck?'

Quivering, he started to turn his pockets inside out, spilling loose tobacco and grimy coins.

'Have ye caught him angry before? I would seriously suggest not to get the wrong side o' him, if ye can help yerself..'

'Why, what happened?' Mundy said, mildly curious, as she began to sweep the floor around the man.

'Ah, ye wouldn't believe me.. Honest, ye gotta see it for yerself.. He turns into.. into.. this goat-man.. but very scary..'

'Goat-man?' She chuckled, disbelieving.

'Yer laughin', but you shouldn't! He's petrifying, scariest sight I've ever witnessed, and tell you what girl, I've seen things that would make yer hair stand on end!'

'Would it now.' She said, leaning on the end of the broom. 'Any chance he looked something like this?'

And she let Baphomet flow through her veins, twist her muscles, adjust into her bones. 

'Wha'..wha'.. bleedin' HELL!!!' The man screamed, and chucked his gold watch at Mundy before he bolted out the door, down the road, not even slowing down front of the Three Broomsticks, but hopping straight into the village's apparition point, disapparating with a loud pop.  

Mundy stood at the entrance of the pub, cackling. 

She'd then pocketed the man’s watch, and went back inside to lock up. 

oOo

Soft rain pattering outside, the cold smell of humidity, the gentle breeze folding around, enveloping one in a loose hold, a sweet almost-there sensation of human touch.

Almost, but not quite there though.

Lonely dark, soaked through shoes, mind numbing boredom. Another cigarette butt hitting the pavement, another hour ticking by on the gold watch too big for one’s bony wrists.

Staring up the windows of scruffy apartments, a familiar tune of soaps blearing through the drafty streets. 

‘My mam’s obsessed with Eastenders too.’ Mundy said to her companion, who shrugged, snorted, and spat down the pavement, before turning a page, hiding behind the folds of the _Daily Prophet_.

‘Never mind then.’ Mundy muttered under her breath, searching through her pockets, only coming up with a rattling smokes packet and another crumpled letter from Robert she’d never answered. ‘I’m just gonna run to the shops. D’you want anything?’ 

Greyback grimaced, a disgusted look flashing through his face before shaking his head in a violent jerk. 

‘You sure? D’you want gum, can of coke, anything at all like?’ 

‘I don’t put any of that muggle dirt in my body.’ He said in the most condescending tone he could muster, before hiding behind his paper again. 

‘Alright then.’ Mundy pulled her sopping wet hood more into her eyes. ‘You sure as hell fucking picky for someone who doesn’t have a problem with a spot of cannibalism.’ She added later, safely out of Greyback’s earshot, and made her way to the nearest shop, a tacky convenience store jammed packed with easter eggs on sale.

'Hi, yes, how are ya, can I get a pack of menthol marlboro's, thanks.' They were no Arctic Trolls, but in a pinch they did the job, she thought to herself, rummaging her pockets for pounds.

'£2.17,' Said the shop assistant, an elderly woman clearly judging her for her life choices.

'And a cup of tea too, will you, sorry now, just with a drop of milk, you’re so good, thanks very much..'

The woman sighed as she hit in the extra 50p, as if Mundy asked her to complete a Herculean task, and the till jammed the same time she dropped Mundy's change on the floor, the woman turning beetroot red, her face disappearing behind the counter decorated by plastic bunnies and colourful packages of crisps.

Mundy silently turned to stare out the window, the rain still beating down with full force, a familiar figure standing outside, staring inside..

'Graham?' She had rushed out the door, forgetting the change, the tea, the muggle woman cursing at her disobedient till.

Montague had that vague expression on his face, the one that he had on whenever he was truly pissed off.

'So you are alive.' He murmured, rain dripping down his cheeks.

'Yeah.' 

'Good to know.' He added, and began to turn on his heel.

'You've got some fucking nerve.'

'Excuse me?'

'If you wanted to break up, next time maybe just let me know, instead of ratting me out to Umbridge..'

'What are you on?'

'Fucking hell, I should have seen it, you spent half an hour polishing all your fucking badges before bed each night, but I thought maybe you won't throw me under the Knight Bus for some stupid inquisitorial squad pin..'

'I didn't throw you under anything.' He'd dug his hands in his pockets, turning back. 'Did you read  _any_ of my letters?'

Mundy didn't reply.

'You didn't, huh? Merlin's sake, you really couldn't give a rat's arse about me..'

She looked back in the shop, the lady inside squeezing the nozzle of an oil spray in the nooks of the till's drawer.

'For your information,' he had turned again, 'Malfoy ratted, not me.'

He had walked then to the large townhouse on the left, an imposing brick building, an elf opening the front door. He'd stopped to wipe his shoes before going in, turning to peer over his shoulder, and Mundy just stood there, raising her shoulders, a half-hearted shrug. 

Montague shook his head, had shut the door with a loud bang.

'Love, do you want your change or will I chuck it in the charity box?' The lady said, handing her an oil stained paper cup.

Dazed, Mundy couldn’t hear her; wouldn’t hear her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos & comments! Please & thank you!


End file.
